I'll Be Your Mirror
by Quasi-suspect
Summary: AU: Santana and Quinn haven't seen each other in seven years. Without Santana, Quinn has found herself. Without Quinn, Santana has lost her way. Sequel to Locked In and Loving to Hate It but it can stand alone.
1. Chapter 1

**I'll Be Your Mirror**

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**Chapter I**

******A/N: Special thanks to my beta ckeller48. She's amazing, as are her stories, which you should read :). **

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**Santana POV**

The conference room feels much colder than usual. My mother, my boss, insists on temperature control in every room in the office. I'm sure that she would control the weather itself if she could. She hates it when something is outside of her control. She's a creature of manipulation. I always knew that about her, but it wasn't until I became intimately acquainted with her work life that I realized how extreme it could be.

I'm forced to button my suit jacket to prevent any visible shiver. I wonder absently what her motivation for today's room chilling temperature is.

"Santana, you're drifting." My mother, Maribel Lopez scolds, and I glance up from the over traced circle I have been making on my notepad.

"I need you focused for this." It's a lecture I've become all too familiar with as of late.

Outside of this office, she has all of the confidence in the world in me. She will jump at any chance to brag about her daughter's various law school achievements or singing talent. But at work, I'm just the newest member of the team. I'm the hapless rookie. I'm the one voted most likely to fuck everything up.

"I know. This is the fifth time you've told me." I don't completely roll my eyes, but I come dangerously close. I know an eye roll would earn me more grunt work that I certainly don't need.

"Maybe if you acknowledged me when I gave you a direction, I wouldn't have to repeat myself." She almost sounds like the stereotypical chiding mother as she says it. She's anything but.

"How about you wait until I actually make a fucking mistake before you start talking to me like I'm a teenager?" She flinches at my colorful language. I half expect to be reprimanded, but she doesn't address it.

"We don't have that luxury. These are people's lives." She reminds me.

It's not that we deal with life and death on the daily. But often the fate of families, livelihoods, and communities are in our hands.

We aren't always the people in the white hats either. Often times, we are agents of greed, power, and deception.

On the other hand, sometimes we do work in favor of the greater good. As long as the greater good is the one signing the checks.

My mother runs her own crisis management firm headquartered in New York City. The firm, Lopez and Associates, accepts jobs from all over the world. It's the reason why she was absent for the majority of my late childhood. I resented her for that, and yet, here I am; the newest edition to her practically unbeatable team.

I often wonder how my life took me here. I was one of those morons who majored in Political Science, and entertained the idea of a law degree, because what the hell else does someone do with a Political Science degree?

I fantasized about heated cross-examinations in courtrooms hushed by my wit and presence. Criminal Law seemed like it would be a good fit until I actually started learning about it. Do you know how many filings you have to make? That shit is not fun nor is it exciting.

When I reached my third and final year of school, I still hadn't found my fit. I had corporate opportunities, but that seemed even more filled with doldrums than Criminal Law.

My mother wasn't the one to tell me of the internship. I overheard some of the third years discussing it one day in the library. So, without speaking to ma about it, I applied.

I didn't want to get the job because of my mother. When the interviewer raised an eyebrow at my last name, I made a joke about fitting right in. As far as I knew, my mom had no hand in the internship process. She was far too busy and important to bother herself which such inconsequential matters. The surprise on her features when I arrived my first day, relayed as much.

Although, it is difficult for me to believe that they did not vet their applicants enough to discover that Maribel Lopez was my mother. As one of three interns, I did everything I could to prevent the other interns and co-workers from discovering who I was.

The actual hiring process after I graduated was much more rigorous and my mother was very much involved.

But the work, while it isn't always moral or ethical, is exciting. I also don't know any of my fellow graduates who are banking more than I am. In the current legal job market, I have every reason to be grateful.

Gratitude is difficult to muster when mom is giving me that look, however.

"Yes. I'm aware of the stakes." I respond in a monotone voice.

"Good. Now, Sean prepped you for the Relcon secretary interviews today?" She inquires, as if she didn't watch Sean and me in this very conference room for the past week.

We had been hired by Relcon's Board of Directors to manage an embezzlement scandal. Someone had been stealing funds to place in an unknown overseas account, but we have yet to discover who that person is. Also, if the information gets out to the public preemptively the Relcon stock was going to drop like nobody's business.

"Yes, and before you ask, I already faxed the spin speech for Ms. Arens to practice." I attempt to shorten this interaction.

It is a great speech, if I do say so; I wrote it myself. At any moment, the press could get wind of the embezzling, and although we would prefer to discover the culprit first before deciding how to approach the public, we had to be prepared for every scenario.

"You faxed it?!" Her fingertips are on her eyebrows before she gets the three words out. It's her tell-tale sign that she's trying to contain her frustration.

"She only has a work email and I was concerned that it would be monitored." I explain. Believe me, I didn't even know that people had fax machines anymore, but when Ms. Arens suggested it, it seemed like the best option.

"Did you fax it to her work?" Her eyes narrow, as her fingers leave her brow.

"No, of course not, I faxed it to her house." I shook my head. What did she think? I'm not stupid. I wouldn't send something like that where someone with conflicting interests could read it.

"Her home? Her home, Santana?! She has a housekeeper. A housekeeper who I assume can read, and who I assume can easily be paid by one of the other board members. How could you be so careless?" She's agitated. I know this, because her accent always comes out to play when her aggravation does.

"I didn't-" I start.

"Leave now. Retrieve the document.," she orders and my stomach drops. I know she's disappointed in me.

"I have the secretary interviews today," I protest.

"Not anymore you don't. Sean will do them." She rips my new found responsibility from me with one sentence. I've had to work my ass off to prove myself to be assigned to those interviews.

"But mamá, can't someone else go instead? Like one of the assistants or interns? I really don't see why it has to be me." I make a last ditch argument, but the way her face is set, I know it will be futile.

"No. You made the mistake. You fix it. There may be people here with lower pay grades, but they have better things to do than clean up after you. Talk to Renee on your way out so we can get Ms. Arens a protected email," she instructs with a wave of her hand.

I clap my binder closed with a sigh. I don't hear the conference door open.

"Ms. Lopez, pardon my interruption." Sebastian Smythe's silky-too-smooth voice permeates the room.

"What is it, Sebastian?" my mother responds without slowing in the notes she's typing on her laptop.

"There's a man here to see you. He doesn't have an appointment, but he's aggressively insistent," he purrs, tipping his head with a smug smile in my direction. It's almost as if he knows that I've earned a place in the doghouse.

"Did you manage to gather his name?" Mom questions with disinterest.

"Russell Fabray. He was surprised that I didn't recognize his name. Then he rampaged about how he was an important person and shouldn't be made to wait. And this wasn't the way to treat a neighbor that you had for almost two decades." Sebastian seems exasperated by Russell's arrogance. It's a trait that Sebastian is known for and yet, he is unable to tolerate the quality in others. It probably irritated him that he was forced to play messenger boy when we had assistants who were charged with these tasks.

And just like that, any breath I have built in my chest to argue with my mother is gone.

I faintly register my mother's eyebrows knitting together in concern. Her fingers still on her keyboard and her gaze fixes on me.

She's the best reader in the business, and one of the most intelligent people I have ever met.

Have I ever told her that Russell Fabray's daughter shattered my heart into oblivion seven years ago? No. Does my lack of confession make her any less aware of the fact? No.

She knows. She knew when I was a 13-year-old hopelessly infatuated with my best friend. She knew when I was a lost 17-year-old who was too afraid to allow that best friend to love me.

When ma found me lost in the bottom of a bottle a few days after Quinn Fabray and I broke up, I know that she knew that it was because my secret relationship had ended.

She asks questions and she gives unsolicited advice, but I've never admitted anything. It would just be a confirmation of what she already knows, in any case.

But for those few moments, Maribel Lopez fixer extreme has disappeared, and she's just a mother in pure form.

_It's been seven years._

_I'm fine._

"Does he have anyone with him?" She asks the question I'm internally begging to know.

If Quinn is in the lobby right now, I might very well throw up.

People say you never forget your first love. But she, she is the only love I have ever been sure of.

I have loved since. Maybe once or twice. But not like that. Never like that.

"Two other men," Sebastian answers, and I swear that man is always a breath away from a smirk.

"Direct him to conference room 3."-the one without the windows-"Kindly inform him that his lackeys will not be admitted to our unscheduled meeting." She firmly requests.

"Yes, Ms. Lopez." Sebastian dutifully responds before he excuses himself to his task.

My mother stands, buttoning her suit jacket, making no effort to hide her appraisal of me.

I'm torn between pleading with her to allow me to sit in on the meeting, and rushing out the door without giving her a chance to further analyze my feelings on the matter.

_It's been seven years._

_I shouldn't still care._

The presence of her father at my work should just feel like one of those strange happenings that are natural consequence of life.

But it doesn't. It doesn't feel like a queer random thing. It feels like I would do anything to push my way into that conference room to study his every facial expression just to see if I could find her within them. Seek out a mannerism with a hint of her in it. Hope for a smile that could provide me with a fraction of the warmth that hers once did.

It's especially strange because there are few people on this earth that I despise more than Russell Fabray.

He is the one who raised Quinn to believe that she needed to meet his every expectation. He had instilled the fear of being different within her.

Sebastian is back before my mother can decide exactly how to approach her read of me. I'm grateful. He opens the door for his boss, and his eyes are on me as soon as she exits.

"Don't you have work to attend to? I doubt Relcon is paying you to stand there looking constipated," he taunts, but I'm no mood.

"Screw you, Smythe," I mumble as I finish gathering my things.

"Oh honey, if either of us played for the suitable team our sex would be epic. Unfortunately for you, we're destined for snark and not sex."

Sebastian is perfect for this job. He doesn't hesitate. No moral dilemma gives this man pause. I'm almost envious of it.

He's definitely cold-hearted, and he holds his extra year of seniority over me whenever he finds the opportunity.

"I would never have sex with you, Sebastian. I can barely stand to be a fellow 'Gladiator in a suit' with you. You're slime." I walk to the door, and near his much taller figure.

He laughs the condescending, albeit somehow still charming, laugh of his before retorting.

"You're not a Gladiator. You're a Gladibaby in four inch knock-offs. Now go crawl to do your mommy's bidding," he sneers.

"Look a little closer, my Gay Disney Prince. They're real, unlike those shiny veneers you're rocking." I'm engaged in our typical back and forth banter now, and I'm grateful to the smug bastard because my mind isn't completely on the man in the windowless conference room.

"Bitch."

"Asshole."

"I'll see you when you get back. Are you going to still make your coffee run or shall I grab you something from the cart?" he offers. Coffee is one favor that we never hesitate to provide for the other. As the newest associates, we both need it to survive.

"Cart." I sigh. It's shit compared to my usual, but I know that I can't waste time making my usual run to the place down a few blocks from our office.

With a nod of acknowledgement from him, I head to speak with Renee on my way out of the office.

* * *

It's been over two weeks since Russell Fabray made his presence known in our office. My mother has managed to make herself especially unavailable to me. The most I've been able to get out of her is that Russell wanted to hire us for a job for his gubernatorial campaign that she was unwilling to do.

It doesn't make any sense. Men like Russell Fabray are our bread and butter.

In my typical style, I don't talk about his appearance to anyone. Not to my roommate and best friend, Puck, nor to any of my other close friends.

What's a girl to say anyway? I had a minor panic attack because my ex's, who I haven't seen since the day we broke up, father came into the office?

I am, in general, a sane and rational girl, although sometimes my temper can be quick and my insults can be biting. I can't properly explain this to myself, I definitely can't offer an explanation to someone else.

But I need to refocus. I want to be as successful as possible here, even though that means working over 60 hours a week. Even though it means that I haven't had sex in two months (which is a very long time in my world).

My feet are tired, and my back hurts by the time 7 p.m. rolls around. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut as I shake out my hands in an attempt to make myself more alert.

"Does that help? Does all of that chair gyrating wake your pedestrian ass up?" Sebastian asks at the desk next to me. As the newest associates, we have to share an office, which at times, is incredibly annoying given Sebastian's arrogant demeanor.

"No, but shoving my heel up your ass would sure do the tri-"

A displeased Maribel Lopez clears her throat by the propped open office door.

_Whoops._

"Sebastian. Leave us for moment, please." She politely demands, and Sebastian all but scrambles to do her bidding. Such an ass kisser.

"My pleasure, Ms. Lopez." It wouldn't surprise me one iota if he were to bow. He removes the door stopper on his way out to provide us with more privacy.

"My goodness that kid is a snake," she smiles down at me, and I know in that instant, that we are not having a boss to underling discussion.

"I'm sure that's why you hired him."

"Pretend I am not your boss for a couple minutes here, mija. I have something for you. I debated for days now about whether I should show this to you," she begins, and her posture, and the softening of her features remind me of my mother rather than my demanding boss. This woman is reminiscent of the mother who tried her best, despite her lack of skill, to cook for me, and the mother who would ask me how my studies were going in the apartment I shared with her through my first couple years of college.

I raise both eyebrows in confusion as my mother deliberately steps out of her HBIC mode. She looks so very apprehensive.

"What is it?" I swallow.

"When I refused Russell's proposal the other week, he stormed out of the office. He left this."

It's a seemingly harmless manila folder that she sets down on my desk. She is careful to rest it on top of my shortest pile of papers.

What could Russell possibly need to fix for his campaign that she would feel the need to show me?

"Listen to me. I love you. Go home early tonight, and point anyone to me if they give you trouble about it tomorrow." She leans down to kiss the part of my hair, grazing my cheek with a troubled hand.

She's scaring me.

She leaves without waiting for me to open the flap. Ever impatient, I flip the folder with just two of my fingers, as if I expect the contents to attempt to bite into my flesh.

It's a private investigator's report. I've seen many of them before in my over year and a half working here.

I place it to the side before reading its contents.

_Fuck._

_It's her._

It's the woman who I once considered to be the love of my life. There are dozens of pictures of her. Her hair is much shorter than I remember. It's choppy, and it frames her flawless face perfectly. In these pictures she's holding hands, kissing, smiling with three different women, the dates stamped purposefully on every frame.

_In public._

_Out in the open for the world to see._

No wonder Russell Fabray would consider this to be a threat to his gubernatorial campaign considering the extremely conservative platform he is running on.

God she's gorgeous, and she looks so happy and at peace with herself.

What did I expect?

Who knows when she gave the big "fuck you" to her father and decided to be open with her sexuality? Did I really expect her to call me up when she was ready?

Had I held this irrational hope this entire time that one day she was going to come to her senses and come running all corny and dramatic like into my arms?

I set my glasses down to the side of the folder, and I take a deep breath.

I can't squeeze the pad between my thumb and forefinger hard enough to keep me grounded in the present.

* * *

_Seven Years Ago_

**_Bang._**

**_Bang._**

**_Bang. Bang. Bang._**

_ I groan, slurring together a string of curses, but I make no motion to answer the door._

_ She's going all Sheldon Cooper on the door, and begins to shout my name between each knock._

_ I'm not having it._

_ Nope. Go away._

_ Eventually she gives up with the niceties that she is normally so partial to, and Rachel Berry charges through my front door._

_ "I banish you back to the Shire!" I throw out my finger as if to show her the way out._

_ "Santana, what are you doing up there?" she inquires from below, and I answer by taking yet another swig from my bottle._

_ I'm chilling on the spiral staircase that leads up to the loft, and my legs are draped over the side of the steps between the railings. I can't recall the last time I moved from this space I have made for myself._

_ It seems like a good place to be. It's the limbo area of the apartment that I share with my mom. I'm parked right in the middle of a place designed purely to transition someone from one floor to the next. But, I sure as hell ain't trying to go anywhere._

_ I watch without interest as she surveys the apartment. There are a few liquor bottles strewn around the room, and some discarded clothes but otherwise it isn't that bad._

_ "Leave," I growl from the landing. I don't need or want her here judging me._

_ "Noah called me. He said that you haven't been answering his texts or calls for days. I thought that you were probably ignoring me, but hearing that you weren't responding to him either worried me," she explains, eyeing me warily._

_ I hate how she referred to Puck as Noah. That's a name for only Puck's mom and I to use._

_ Also, I fucking hate the way she's looking at me. She doesn't know what I'm going through. She knows nothing._

_ "Don't care," I urge against the neck of my bottle._

_ "Yes you do. You care about him, and you even care about me. Why have you been drinking alone in your apartment for days?" she questions as she begins collecting the bottles around the room._

_ "Why have you been annoying for years?" I counter with a loopy smile._

_ And oh how she has been. She's been loud, pushy, and obnoxious for years, and now here she is barging her way into my space during my greatest moment of vulnerability. I could drop this bottle on the tip of her sizable nose for that fact alone._

_ "I'm coming up there to bring you down," she warns, and I scowl._

_ "If you come up here, the only thing you will be doing is dying," I threaten._

_ She chooses wisely, and doesn't attempt to climb the stairs, but she scurries around the apartment mindlessly for a few minutes before resting her body on the sofa._

_ I'm quickly running out of alcohol, which is unfortunate, because I do not want to be on the same floor as my pestering intruder below._

_ I lean back, hitting my head on the landing with a thump. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. Why couldn't I drink enough to forget?_

_ It's been four days since I left Quinn with a broken heart in her dorm in New Haven. The pain only seems to grow with each passing hour._

_ Rachel stays at my apartment without my permission. She only leaves for her classes and her voice lessons. She makes every attempt to feed me. Most of them are unsuccessful. I think she fears that if she leaves me by myself for too long, I'll be dead when she returns. _

_She rarely stops talking._

_ I think it's day 9 of my misery, when my mom returns from France. I haven't attended a single class since I returned from New Haven. I'm not exactly aware of my own schedule and certainly not that of others. Due to recent events, it completely slipped my mind that she was due home today._

_ I can hear her voice, but thanks to the vodka, things are becoming fuzzier by the second. Good. Fuzzy is an improvement. _

_ "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Lopez," Rachel greets in her usual overly polite manner._

_ "I assume those legs belong to my daughter." I can only see the top of my mother's head but from her voice, she is not pleased. I swing my legs as a form of response to her._

_ "They do." Rachel's voice sounds heavy. I know I've been scaring her, but fuck, I never asked her here in the first place._

_ "And you are?"_

_ "Oh, my apologies. I am Rachel Berry. I'm a friend of Santana's. We were in Glee Club together, and-" she explains, and I know she's about to ramble on about the complicated intricacies of our friendship, but I cut her off before she can make my mom feel awkward like she does everyone else._

_ "We're not friends," I contest, cringing at the sound of my mother's keys clanging down hard on the counter._

_ Uh oh._

_ "Santana Gabriella Lopez are you drunk? Sit up!" she commands._

_ Somehow, despite the swimming of my head, I drag myself to a seated position, pulling myself up with my hands by the bars of the staircase._

_ "Mamá," I whine as she whips off her sunglasses to get a better appraisal of me._

_ "You look homeless," my mother observes, and gives Rachel a searching look as if to ask what is going on with me._

_ "We aren't the sort of friends where she opens up to me about her life," Rachel answers my mother's look with a hopeless shrug and shake of her head._

_ "We're not really friends!" I shout, and move the liquor bottle to hide it behind my back, as if my mom has not already noticed it._

_ It's a lie though. As much as I have fought against it the past few years, Rachel is definitely a friend. But I'm drunk, and sad, and angry, and the Hobbit is now discussing my issues with my mother. So fuck her._

_ "Who does she open up to?" my mother asks Rachel and I scoff. It is pathetic that my mother doesn't even know that much about my life._

_ "She seems the closest to Quinn and Noah," Rachel responds._

_That name. Fuck._

_ My eyes are no longer dry, and they are not under my control. I'm not capable of listening to whatever exchange the two tiny women have next. Until her name is spoken again._

_ "Hmm…that's strange. It says that her phone is no longer in service," Rachel hums beneath me._

_ She had threatened to call someone dozens of times while she had been staying here, but I had warned her that I would disappear and she would never find me again if she did. I guess my mom is giving her the extra confidence to go against my wishes._

_ I had even made her text Puck to tell him that I was okay, and just really busy with school. Sober Santana would never have lied to him like that._

_ "Noah, it's Rachel. I went to Santana's like you requested and she is in poor form."_

_ "Yes. I know. We lied to you. Bad shape. Yes. I'll place you on speakerphone. Be polite. Mrs. Lopez is here," Rachel converses before popping Puck on speakerphone._

_ "Lopez!" His voice crackles through the apartment, and I smile weakly._

_ "Puck," I whimper, even though I knew he can't hear me. The sound of his voice is my lifeline._

_Maybe that is why I had refused to take any of his calls lately. I didn't want to be conscious._

_ The occupants of the room both gasp as I hop over the railing, landing not so gracefully on my feet._

_ My mom is about to go into lecture mode, but she steadies me instead, grimacing at the alcohol permeating from my skin, I'm sure._

_ I steal the phone from Rachel, struggling with the screen to figure out how to take it off speakerphone. The Hobbit finally presses the proper button._

_ "Why did you fall off the grid, babe? It was fucked up. You wouldn't answer your phone, and Quinn's phone wouldn't even ring. My Jeep wouldn't make it all the way to New York. God damn it, Santana." I frown pathetically against the phone._

_ "I think she's changed her number," I slur._

_ "You sound trashed." He doesn't sound even the slightest bit amused at the notion. I almost giggle at the thought. Usually he's the one trying to get me drunk._

_ "Yup," I croak._

_ "How rough we talking here?" he asks, and even in my inebriated state I know what he's referring to. He knows there is only one person who could put me here._

_ "We're done." I step not so smoothly away from the other occupants of the room to say it. It feels like a harpoon to the heart to say it out loud._

_ "No fucking way," he curses, and I can hear his long exhale._

_ "Would I be like this if we weren't? I need you," I confess against the mouthpiece._

_ "I'll see if I can borrow ma's car. I think I have enough saved up for gas. I'll be there by tomorrow. Will you be okay until then?"_

_ "You can't do that." I shake my head as if he can see it._

_ "Put me on speaker," he orders, and I narrow my eyes in confusion. I push buttons until his voice is once again loud enough for everyone to hear._

_ "Mrs. Lopez?" he calls out to my mother._

_ "Yes?" My mother stops whatever conversation she was having with Rachel._

_ "Santana keeps her fake ID in a hidden flap in her lady wallet thingy," he narcs, and I almost slap the phone._

_ "Whoa! Way to throw me under the bus, asshole," I growl._

_ "Language, mija!" Mom chastises. She finds her daughter piss drunk and she's worried about my language. Silly woman._

_ "I want you alive when I get there," he says with enough sincerity to make my eyes water again._

_ "I'm not letting you drive here," I contest._

_ "You don't have a choice," he asserts without leaving me any room for argument._

_ "He'll fly here. On me. Give me the phone so I can book it with him." My mother reaches out for the phone, and I reluctantly plop it into her hand before she promptly snatches the bottle from me with her free hand._

* * *

Present Day

I don't remember how I got home to my apartment.

Puck is occupying his usual space on our couch, and I can't find the words to greet him.

"Good to see you too, babe," he grunts, taking a swig from his water glass as he flips to a new channel.

He glances over his shoulder, and it only takes a second before his expression changes.

"What happened?" I hate that look of his. It reminds me of the face he made when he first saw me upon his arrival to the airport seven years ago.

I'm a 25-year-old professional. I don't need anyone to give me that look. _Ever._ Especially merely because I saw some pictures of my high school girlfriend frolicking about all out and happy with other women.

I halt his movement to stand with just one hand. I plop the file down on his lap and I head down the hall to my bedroom.

It takes him approximately three minutes before I hear his voice bellowing down the hall.

"I'll get the shot glasses!"


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter II**

**A/N: I was completely overwhelmed and humbled by the response I received from last chapter. You are all amazing and I appreciate it far more than I could ever convey in an author's note. Once again, a special thanks to my lovely beta and friend ckeller48. **

* * *

**Santana's POV**

There's noise in my apartment, and I am simultaneously unreasonably annoyed and confused. I'm always awake and mulling around for work far before Puck is even in danger of leaving REM sleep. The only times where we see each other in the morning is when he is just getting in from a night out.

More confusing yet, it's a Saturday, and I know that his manager shift at the bike shop doesn't start until 11 a.m.

I'm disoriented. Probably because for once, it is not my alarm that wakes me. I've never been one to have issues sleeping, unless I'm stressed or upset, and lately I've been running entirely on caffeine, fumes, and adrenaline so there's literally nothing my body is able to do but hibernate as soon as my head hits the pillow. My alarm jars me awake often just a few short hours later.

My head hurts. It's a symptom of my habitually unfortunate sleeping habits. It feels like a hangover, only I didn't drink the night before. I've become fond of calling it my work hangover.

My sex life has slowed to almost a stop over the past year or so since my law school hook-ups have all spread out or husbanded/wifed up. It's been difficult, to say the least, to fit it in, and also to find someone who is understanding of my arduous and unpredictable schedule. When my mother demanded that the entire office take this Saturday off after we successfully completed the last three difficult cases, I was about 90 kinds of ready to first, find sexual satisfaction from stress and tension, and then second, rest.

With that, despite my disorientation, I am not surprised to see the mess of blonde hair next to me. It's not the first time that Chelsea and I have had sex, but our schedules rarely allow it to happen. Sometimes she reminds me of a worldlier version of my friend Brittany. She's random and eccentrically insightful, but she is far more grounded. Oh, and another significant difference is that I can't ever imagine her falling in love with me.

In fact, I kiss her bared shoulder, despite my annoyance at whatever noise had roused me, because I am so grateful to have someone offer the release to me that I had been needing so desperately.

She releases a low sigh, indicating to me that she is not completely unfazed by the ruckus in my apartment.

"This is why I suggested the coffee as a peace offering." I hear a muffled man's voice outside of the door, but it's easily a half octave higher than Puck's.

"That's not even how she likes it!" A feminine voice contends, and before I can react to just how close the voices are to my room, the door is pushed open.

"Naked women!" Kurt gasps throwing his hand dramatically over his eyes, as Sadie steadies the toppling coffee carrier that he is holding.

"Please. There's nothing disturbing about this view right now, no matter how gay you are, fancy pants." Sadie's eyes wander a little too brazenly, and I scowl up at her.

She has taken to using many of my nicknames for our friends. Normally, I find it amusing. Currently, I'm feeling slightly violated.

"You have a great ass, you know that? Do you do spinning classes? I've always found that-" Sadie uncouthly compliments Chelsea.

It's a reflex to pull the covers more concretely over both of us. I should be more focused on Chelsea, however, because god knows Sadie has already seen every part of my naked body.

"I apologize for my friend here, Chels. It's been too long since the pervert has been with a woman. She's currently on an unfortunate man kick," I snark, although I am genuinely embarrassed that Chelsea has been submitted to this intrusion.

Sadie halts Kurt's instinctual exit, turning him promptly around with a hand on each bicep. I personally think that he has the right idea about things. I sigh heavily and roll my eyes as Sadie leads them both to the edge of the bed to sit. Chelsea, to the credit of her humor, just laughs, and tucks more of the comforter around her sides.

"Hello random gorgeous woman with impeccable skin, I'm Sadie and this is Kurt. We're friends of your fuck buddy Santana here. We haven't seen her for weeks, and we were informed that she had today off. So we were hoping to get to spend some time with her. I understand, believe me, if you're not quite finished getting your orgasm on. I will respect that, if you will give us a time frame. Otherwise, we're going to steal her from you." Sadie introduces herself in her quintessentially assertive manner.

Chelsea glances over to me, and all I can do is give her a sheepish and exhausted shrug in return.

"Go jump on Puck for a few minutes," I direct them, and with a smile strained with embarrassment, Kurt is the first to shuffle out the door.

I say goodbye to Chelsea, and she is refreshingly cool about it, as she always has been. We give each other a chaste kiss at the door after we both have dressed.

I can plainly hear Puck's complaint from the other room.

"This is not the kind of threesome that I was just dreaming about!" he yells, and I laugh, lifting the lids of the three coffees, that Kurt had been kind enough to rest on the counter, before claiming the one least afflicted with sugar and cream as my own.

"Puck said you hadn't had a whole lot of company lately. We honestly didn't expect your bed to be at full occupancy," Sadie remarks as she emerges from Puck's bedroom. It's her version of an apology.

"I'm so glad that Puck keeps you updated on my sex life," I bite back sarcastically.

"Hey." she interjects, and I can see the unease in her blue green eyes.

"I can't pinpoint exactly when this black cloud settled over your head, but I don't like it. I've missed you, we've all missed you, and I know you're busy being important, but I hate how dark and twisty you are when we do see you," she expresses, never having been one to beat around the bush.

I don't disagree with her. I have no grounds to do so. Because of that, I only sip my coffee in response.

"I think it's Quinn," Puck proclaims as he tiredly exists his bedroom with Kurt on his heels. I'm happy Puck at least had the decency to pull on some sweatpants. I selfishly hope that Kurt and Sadie got an unfortunate eye full when they woke him. They deserve it after my bedroom intrusion.

Hearing her name again doesn't jar me like it did a few months back when my mother first placed that file on my desk.

It still isn't pleasant, but numbness definitely encompasses the most prevalent fraction of my reaction.

"Quinn Fabray? Uh...I thought we hadn't seen that bitch in a decade." Sadie glances between the two of us in puzzlement.

"It's not Quinn. It's work," I correct her. I'm being honest, for the most part. I have been doing my best to not think about Quinn at all. Work has been weighing me down, but it is the perfect storm for a distraction.

"I thought you loved it," Kurt poses.

"I do sometimes. It's just…I don't always agree with it." I clear my throat, crossing into the kitchen to grab a banana from the counter.

Everyone seems to expect an explanation.

"Yesterday our big triumph was completing a job where a husband will never know he's not the father and a child will never know who his bio dad is." I shake my head, focusing on the banana as I peel it.

"That's…shitty," Sadie mumbles.

"It is," I agree, taking my first bite, while attempting to come off as nonchalant.

"So you're exhausted, and feeling guilty. It'll be okay, Santana. You just need a break. We were thinking mani pedis today?" I smile and nod at Kurt's suggestion. Previously, I was planning on sleeping in and watching horrible television all day, but I am not the kind to pass on a manicure.

"Are we really not going to talk about how Quinn was brought up at the start of this conversation randomly?" Sadie complains.

"I could kill you." I glare at Puck. He of all people should know how opposed I am to discussing my ex-girlfriend.

"It's not my fault that you help men cheat on their wives, and it's also not my fault that Quinn is probably running around with some hot chick somewhere in this city as we speak," he argues, swiping one of the coffees for himself.

"Fuck you. It was a woman this time!" _As if that somehow makes it any better. Ugh._

It takes me more than a beat to register the second part of what he said.

"Quinn is in New York?!" Kurt exclaims, and the information registers with me.

"You read the file, Puck?! You told me that you burned it for me months ago!" I'm livid. I thump my coffee down on the counter with a splash. I only looked through the pictures, I never actually read the Private Investigator's report.

He takes a step back, throwing his hands up as if to guard his bared nipples.

"I lied," he confesses.

"Well no fucking shit," I growl.

* * *

"I thought we were getting pedicures. This is not how I want to spend my first day off in weeks," I grumble from my awkward lean against the windowsill roughly a half an hour later.

Kurt and Sadie are huddled together on the couch with the file between them. I glare heatedly at Puck as he leaves for work. He has the gumption to blow me a kiss on his way out the door.

"It must be nice to be finally able to talk about this with people. Seven years late but still," Sadie tries to find the positive in the situation.

She's referring to the fact that since Quinn was closeted, I couldn't really talk about our relationship with anyone but Puck once it was over (although Sadie was aware of the relationship as well).

"Just because we _can_ talk about it doesn't mean that I _want_ to talk about it." I distinguish as I am thoroughly tired of my friends' insistence on prying.

"Why are you still standing there then?" Kurt challenges, and I scoff. I don't have a good answer for him.

Part of me knew that Puck had lied about the file originally. It's an essential skill for my job to know when someone is lying. Plus, I've been friends with him for over ten years now. I knew his tells.

"She graduated from Yale with a double major in Business and Art with a painting concentration." Kurt begins, and I turn to face the window.

I could have looked her up. I have the resources, and even Google would probably tell me that much. But if Quinn really didn't want me in her life, who was I to go snooping around it?

I'm happy to hear that she got her art degree after all. _Proud of you, Quinn._

Her father had always pushed for her to get a degree in business. I had always worried that she was never going to get to pursue what she loved. She always had such a passion and talent for art. I couldn't comprehend how she could contemplate doing anything else.

"Someone didn't sleep their last two years of college," Sadie remarks on the double major.

"I'm sure she managed. Quinn could always succeed at 1,000 things at once." I shake my head at my ex-girlfriend's ridiculous work ethic.

"Oh and she did, wanna know her G.P.A.?" Kurt offers.

"I'm good, thanks," I refuse. That seems far too invasive. Not that the rest of this seems morally sound. And yet, now they've started in on this, I crave more.

"Then what?" I urge them.

"Oo someone's invested now," Sadie teases.

"Get on with it," I order.

"She received her M.F.A. from the California Institute of the Arts. Her father cut her off financially, and severed her bank account two weeks before she moved to California. She dated this fine brunette girl almost exclusively her first year." I glance over my shoulder as Sadie lifts one of the photographs to show me.

"That's right by Mercedes in L.A." Kurt points out. At least Quinn had someone she loved close by.

"She did painting commissions throughout grad school, and started doing various photography jobs as well. It looks as though her work has a small, but rapidly growing, cult following on the internet," Sadie observes.

"Why is she here?" I inquire. I had no doubts that she would be successful, although it is great to hear just how successful she has been. In the end, however, her presence in NYC is the reason why the file was brought up again.

Kurt promptly closes the file. At first I think there is something terrible that he doesn't want to tell me, but then he gets a mischievous gleam in his eye.

"No, no more. I want to know why you have this file on Quinn Fabray. I want to know why she changed her number all those years ago. I want to know why she's been a taboo subject for you," Kurt demands.

"Kurt she doesn't have to…" Sadie protests, shooting me a sympathetic look. She knows what it's like to love someone who she can't tell anyone else about.

"No. The cat is out of the bag, and you're deluded if you think I haven't had an idea of what happened between the two of you this entire time. I also think it would do you good to say it out loud. You can pretend it isn't real if you never talk about it." Kurt overrules Sadie's objection.

"Quinn and I dated for a year, starting in the fall of our senior year."

"A year? I guessed it was longer than that." Kurt has voiced his suspicions in the past but I've always shut him down.

"Things started to change between us on my birthday junior year, actually. Well that's not completely accurate. It was a few weeks before that when we were locked in the storage room at work together-" I recall. It feels incredibly strange to talk about it after all this time.

"Wanky." Sadie steals my word.

I give her an affectionate look. Not because she uses wanky almost as much as I do now, but because she's so very cool and understanding about what happened between her and I once upon a time. Sadie was interested in me during the same time period that things were getting complicated with Quinn. I even dated Sadie the summer after my junior year, but I started dating Quinn shortly after my break up with Sadie. Sadie has never once acted bitterly about the whole situation.

"No it wasn't. It was yelling and name calling, but we started to fix something that was broken that day," I continue.

"We broke up when I visited her in New Haven shortly after our first year of college started. She couldn't tell me that she ever saw herself being open about us. Her number was changed by my first desperate attempt to call her the next day. I should have known. She said that we could never be friends." I turn back to the window. Not for dramatic effect, but because I'm not masking my emotions as much as I would like to be.

"I haven't felt that way about anyone since. People talk about dumb high school love, and now naïve and silly it was, but this was different. It's still different," I admit.

"I loved Blaine, but it was definitely the immature kind of love with him," Kurt remembers.

Blaine was Kurt's high school boyfriend. They were adorable together, but when Kurt moved to New York to begin his fashion career, Blaine cheated on him. They never reconciled their relationship after that.

"She was hired by an Urban Art project," Kurt finally answers my question.

"And the other women?" I can't help but ask.

"This one was a short term thing in California. This one is from when she first moved to NYC. There's no record of a break up, but this was months ago, you know?" I turn back to view the pictures as Kurt explains.

Do I really care whether she's in a relationship right now? It's not as if I even know the woman anymore. But, it stings whether I want it to or not, and I haven't yet figured out exactly why that is.

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

It's overwhelming. This calm. Overwhelming in the best possible way.

This can't be a usual thing, given how unhappy the average person seems to be.

But I, I feel at home, I feel content.

It hasn't been an easy or simple journey here. I've lost people who I thought I loved; I've struggled with my identity as a friend, a student, a daughter, and a lover. It took me a long time to discover that I needed find myself rather than excel at who I was to everyone else.

But I made it.

"Ms. Fabray?" One of the students calls out for me from the wall.

"It's Quinn, Michael. Just Quinn. What do you need?" I approach him as he fights to scrub a particularly moldy area of the wall.

"I can't get this to come off," he whines, dipping his scrub brush into the bleach solution.

"Do you mind if I try?" I ask, pulling my goggles from around my neck and onto my eyes.

Ms. Clemens, the teacher for this class, smiles over at me. We've grown close the past couple months as I've been in and out of her classroom.

This was my fourth week at this site. Another portion of the wall has already been cleansed and painted by me with another group of students, and today is this group's first day working on their section of the wall.

I love it, even as I'm scrubbing mold from a wall. The hours aren't long, and the pay is more than generous. It also allows me time to continue to grow my photography business, and to do my independent commissions as well. It's perfect, and the kids make even the most trying of days worth it.

Additionally, I'm really starting to make friends in the city, which I was slightly apprehensive about at first. I wasn't sure how I would fit in on the East Coast again after my couple years in California.

There's just one catch. I don't even know if I would call it that. In truth, I'm really not sure what it is or what to compare it to.

Our site isn't quite adjacent to the sidewalk. But when she walked by for the first time I felt it. I knew it. My back was turned, but I felt her. I felt her presence. I knew she was there before I could even recognize what it meant, and before I could turn my head to affirm it. It was Santana.

I blame the pull. With that thought, I can faintly remember the sound of Santana's voice from that day in late summer when she sprinted to my house, because she was finally ready to tell me how she felt about me. She described the draw we had to one another as a pull and I couldn't have agreed more.

* * *

_"I-I feel this pull."_

_"It's a pull to you, Quinn. And, it has been there since the first time you stole my inflatable guitar in preschool. It's the most powerful thing that I have ever felt, and it just keeps getting stronger."_

_"I've spent years trying to get rid of it. I've tried hating you, I've tried to think of you as only a friend, I've tried lying to you, I've tried lying to myself, but it is unyielding."_

_"I can't shake this. I can't outsmart it. I can't beat it."_

* * *

It isn't logical. No one would believe me if I told them. How could I have known that someone, who I hadn't seen in over seven years, was behind me with nothing more than the sound of heels clicking on the sidewalk?

But she was there. She had passed us by the time I finally turned around. I only received a long glimpse of her back before she rounded the block ahead.

I did manage to convince myself that it wasn't her, that was until she walked by again the next day. Once again, I knew she was there. That day, I turned quickly enough to see the side of her face. Her head was tilted down towards her phone, and she was speaking a mile a minute into her headset.

It happened like that almost every day. Five days a week. Sometimes six. Only on Saturdays, she walked by much earlier than usual.

I created many lives for her in my head. In one, she was a successful life coach who people sought out because of her no-nonsense, no holds-barred advice. In another, she was the youngest executive at a nonprofit geared toward facilitating job training for single mothers. Sometimes, she was a manager at a four star restaurant in the heart of the city. Or in one, she ran her own small music label only for artists whose albums she would buy herself.

For some of the lives she was single. In others, she was struggling to fit in engagement ring shopping amongst all of her other obligations. In some of the lives she was married. In one of them, her wife was pregnant with their first child. Santana was so very proud even though she, of course, wouldn't let the full extent of her excitement show. She had a special voice that she would only use at night against her wife's stomach after she was sure her was wife asleep.

I never saw a wedding ring. Sometimes when I would deliberately seek out a view of her hand as she passed I imagined her falling into bed with various women, blindly searching for something that she wasn't sure she would ever find.

Alternatively, sometimes I pictured her arguing with a beautiful, kind-eyed, patient woman about how she didn't need to wear a symbol of possession to be hers.

Her hair is longer than I remember. She has subtle highlights that are far more noticeable in the sun than they probably ever would be under the lights of an office.

Her walk has changed. It's intensified, and calmed at the same time. She doesn't walk like she has anything to prove, instead, she walks as if she has already long ago proven herself.

In high school, we were both known for our Head Bitch in Charge struts. The throngs of people in the hallways literally parted for us. But her walk isn't the same anymore. I think 18-year-old Santana would have jumped out of the way for the woman charging down the sidewalk near me each day.

Despite her constant phone conversations as she passes, I can never quite make out her voice. That's probably for the best. I probably would lose it if I heard her voice again.

Her suits are tailored perfectly to her body. Her makeup is always professional, but she seems to have as much fun with jewelry as she is allowed by whatever her profession may be.

I wonder who she is now. I wonder who she's been. I wonder how she's grown. I wonder how she's changed.

I wonder if she still fights the same way. I wonder if she still uses clever nicknames for everyone in her life. I wonder if she still kisses the same way. I wonder if she still has a peppermint gum addiction. I wonder if she still crosses her arms whenever she is upset or frustrated. I wonder if she still smells like tropical fruit.

When is the last time she thought of me? If she thinks of me at all. Does she think of our first kisses? Does she smile when she recounts that even at our happiest we couldn't manage to not banter with one another? Does she recall our promises of forever or can she only remember the day when forever ended?

I think about whether she is still close to Puck, and whether she calls Brittany every Monday like she used to during her first month at college. I contemplate who she calls at night when she's had a rough day or when she has a ridiculous story of her antics to share. I try to guess how many women she has said "I love you" to since me. I muse about whether she's been on the set of one of Rachel Berry's movies.

Aside from Mercedes, Rachel is the only friend from high school who I have a vague idea of where her life has taken her. And that's only because she's become famous, just as we all knew she would.

Mercedes is the only real connection that I still have to my high school self. I saw her as often as I could manage when I was living in California. Thankfully, she's always been the kind of friend that even when life gets busy and we aren't in touch for a couple months, we always fall right back into how things were before when we do speak again.

There were some topics that are off limits for speaking, however. Santana is the main one. I insisted years ago that I didn't want to know about Santana's life or whatever gossip Mercedes managed to collect. The last I knew, Santana was in her first year of undergrad at Columbia, and she had yet to declare a major. I didn't know that Santana was still in NYC until she walked by that first day.

Before she broke up with me over seven years ago, Santana was my _everything_. After that, I couldn't have her just be _something_ to me. For me, she had to be everything or she had to be nothing at all. I know Mercedes didn't understand why I had to cut Santana, and everyone that she was close to, out of my life. But it was necessary. I wouldn't have survived otherwise. I certainly wouldn't have thrived as I have done.

Not that I have _exactly_ thrived romantically. It was never their fault. It's difficult, if not impossible, to compete with a ghost.

Tyler's voice jerks me from my musings.

"Hey there, pretty mama, looking good. What's your name, pretty mama?" He's walking backwards in front of an unenthusiastic Santana.

_Oh crap._

I could almost smile. Tyler had tried to chat me up as well the first time I met him a couple months ago. He is charming if you're into cocky 15-year-olds.

But I'm nervous. So far, I have avoided Santana noticing me as I have her. She's always so focused on her phone that she has never seemed to spare a glance in our direction.

Santana promptly ends her phone conversation to address the kid, and I attempt to step away from any of her probable lines of vision.

"And where do you think a name will get you, munchkin?" She tilts her head down to meet his gaze. He is by no means short for his age, but her heels are definitely giving her the height advantage.

It is all I can do to prevent my eyes from rolling into the back of my head. Her voice floats into me, curling inside of me at my very core.

Her response has clearly stunted his confidence.

"Uh…" He blanks.

I scan over in Ms. Clemens' direction to gauge her reaction, but she seems amused by the interaction and doesn't step forward to stop it.

Santana takes the hat from the boy's head and flips it over her wrist. He reaches for his exposed hair self-consciously.

"Will you be here tomorrow?" She asks with the smirk that I remember all too well. It used to drive me crazy. After everything, I'm none too surprised to find that it still does.

He glances over at Ms. Clemens as if he doesn't know the answer to the question. She nods as if to tell him to go ahead.

"Yeah," he responds shakily, and she releases a short, throaty chuckle.

"I'll make you a deal, short stack. I was just on the phone with someone who works for a member of the House of Representatives. Tomorrow, if you can answer some questions for me about how the House of Representatives works, I'll give you a kiss on the cheek," she offers him, and the girls next to me start in on a fit of giggles at his following blush. I pray that Santana doesn't look in the direction of the noise.

"Okay." He nods, ignoring everything else but her. Who could blame him?

She returns his hat to the top of his head with a wink before she continues her path down the sidewalk, pressing a button on her phone that I can only assume is connecting her to her next call.

Maybe she works for one of the New York representatives. That's a life that I haven't thought of yet.

"House of what? What did she say?" He turns once she is out of earshot with his face contorted in hopeful confusion.

"Representatives." I clarify for him immediately as he returns to the wall.

"I'm gonna have to Google that shit," he asserts, reaching for his goggles and scrub brush once again.

"Tyler," Ms. Clemens chastises, and the girls start giggling once again.

* * *

I'm reclined on the couch in the middle of my modest apartment. The TV is on, but I have no idea what ridiculous singing competition is currently serving as the soundtrack to my thoughts.

My eyes are bouncing back and forth between the ceiling and the contacts list of my phone. With one tap of my thumb I could open a box that I have done everything to keep locked shut for the past seven and a half years.

I bring the skin of the inside of my cheek between my teeth before I press the name to call.

"Baby girl!" Mercedes answers on the third ring.

She doesn't wait for my response.

"It's been weeks! How's the new part of the job? Are the kids still behaving? How's business treating you? This tour is crazy you wouldn't believe what I saw in Phoenix this weekend…"

She rambles about the tour that she's providing background vocals for without allowing me to answer any of her questions. She eventually pauses for a breath, and I realize that it is finally my turn to speak.

"I still love it, but-" I begin.

"But what, Quinn?" she interrupts.

"I've been seeing Santana almost every day for the past month," I breathe out.

"Whoa whoa, you've started dating Santana again and you waited this long to tell me about it?! This is just not okay," she protests dramatically.

"No, you dork. I've been seeing her with my eyes. She walks by my job site around 4 p.m. every day." I correct her.

"My god in heaven, what are the odds?" she recites in disbelief.

I let her rant about Jesus and fate and faith while I take several deep breaths. I haven't deliberately spoken Santana's name in years. Although, apparently, I have said it in my sleep before. And not just on that one flight to New York City junior year of high school.

"Are you okay?" she finally pauses to ask something sensible.

"Quinn, are you okay?" she repeats.

"Uh yeah, yes. I think I am. Actually, I don't know." I admit into the phone.

"Have you tried to speak to her?" I laugh bitterly and almost instantaneously at her question.

"And say what? Sorry I deleted you from my life years ago, but I'm a much better and different person now, and I still think you're the most beautiful and captivating person I have ever seen?" I roll my eyes at the thought.

"You might not want to lead with that." she responds seriously.

"Do you have any better ideas?"

"Do you want to talk to her?"

"Yes. No. I don't know. I don't know who she is anymore. She looks so…professional, and together, and adult and mature…" I trail off, lost in thoughts of Santana in her power suits and pant skirts with her determined walk and her animated phone conversation faces.

"Yeah, you sound like you wanna get _really_ mature with her," Mercedes teases, and I blush despite myself.

"Okay, we don't need to talk about how pathetic it is that my best sex was in high school." I hold up a hand as if she can see it.

"I don't need the reminder either. My eardrums haven't fully recovered. You two stunted my talent," she exaggerates.

"Shut up." I laugh louder than I expect to.

"I'm not apologizing. That's the first genuine laugh I've heard from you this whole conversation."

"What do I do?"

"How much do you want to know? Are we finally lifting the Santana Lopez ban?"

I hesitate a moment before squeezing my eyes shut to answer.

"Yes."

"After college Santana went to law school, and kicked major booty there. Now she works for her mother at the crisis management firm. As far as I know, she's single. She lives with Puckerman, and she's hangs out with some of the same people from our former high school group."

I don't know why I didn't think about her working for her mom. Maybe because her mother's job was always a touchy topic for her. Her mother was usually absent because of it.

"How will this help me talk to her?" It's such a short list of information but I'm overcome by it all the same. I had spent weeks, well if I am being honest, years, thinking about where my ex-girlfriend's life may have taken her.

"Puck is in a band that has some local buzz. Santana sings for them once a month at a bar that they have a set gig at."

_She still sings. Good._

"Kurt goes almost every time. So does Brittany when she's in town."

"Okay…"

"Kurt's probably your best bet, baby girl, and it might be easier to get to know people again in a group setting rather than trying to ambush Santana one-on-one."

"That might be a good idea. When is the next one?"

"This Saturday."

"Oh, shit."


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter III**

**A/N: My beta, ckeller48, remains awesome. If anyone was curious. **

**Flashbacks are in italics, by the way. I probably should have mentioned that earlier. In any case, enjoy! **

* * *

**Santana's POV**

"This isn't about how much you're paying us. You can't throw more money our way and expect this to work on your terms. You hired us because we are the best chance that you have of salvaging your career. You could pay any hobo off the street to follow your instructions, but I'm telling you right now, that if we do things your way, you will lose everything. You will be finished. So either you get out of the way, and you let us do what you hired us for, or we say goodbye and leave you to the mess that you've created for yourself. I don't know where you got any other impression from, but that's the only choice you have here," I assert into my headset as I continue sorting the laundry on my bed.

My client grumbles some sort of agreement, and I twist my body at the sound of the apartment door opening followed by the roll of wheels on the hardwood floor. I end the phone call just as the visitor's voice permeates the apartment.

I know who it is before I even enter the hallway. Rachel has a very distinctive tap to her walk (the constant need to observe details has overflowed from my work life into my personal one as well), and Puck won't be off work for at least another hour.

"Where is my lawyer?! I demand to see her now!" she calls out playfully, beaming as soon as I come into her view.

"Well if it isn't Frodo Baggins Superstar," I tease in return as Rachel removes her ridiculously large hat.

She has failed to take to heart all of my tips for traveling incognito. She thinks she's hiding her face with hats like that, but she's really just drawing more attention to herself. I silently promise to give her hell if there are paparazzi outside of my apartment.

"I don't know why you ever thought it was cool to make Lord of the Rings references all of the time, but ten years later-and trust me on this-it's not getting any cooler," she remarks near the shell of my ear as soon as her arms are around me.

I haven't seen her in almost two months. I easily match the enthusiasm of her hug.

"Is "cool" what they say in Hollywood nowadays?"

"I wouldn't know what they're saying in Hollywood. I've been stuck in Wyoming for the past two months." She makes her signature pout as we amicably pull back from the embrace.

"I know. You poor thing. I'm pumped to go see you pretend to do some equestrian shit though," I mock, tugging her sunglasses off of her face in search of the brand.

"My biggest fan," she laughs, hitting me gently in the hip with her oversized purse.

"You know it."

Randomly, she glances back with disapproval at the closed door.

"You really need to start locking your door, Santana. You're not exactly in the business of making friends," she scolds.

"And then what? You'd have to actually knock on the door with your insured hands? Your agent would kill me."

"I'm being serious, Santana. Just do it. If only for my peace of mind," Rachel implores.

"Your mouth makes the weirdest wrinkle when you frown like that. It's even better on the big screen." I point with widened eyes.

"It's funny when you try to insult me, but really all you're doing is making it readily apparent just how often you stare at my face." She pokes my right dimple, and it almost makes me miss the days when she was afraid of me.

"It's a good face," I shrug noncommittally.

"Thank you," she responds softly, and the rising movie star glances down with a shy smile.

"Don't hate me, but I'm really going to need a nap if I'm going to be stage ready for you guys tonight." She clears her throat.

She doesn't attempt to ask me to carry her bags to the guest room. She knows better. She tried that once when her star first starting taking off. She never made that mistake again.

"Does that mean you're going to perform with us?" I ask in a tone tinged with hope. When she had first cited this as her weekend off from filming I had asked her if she would sing with us at the bar.

"You betcha."

I smile broadly at her response.

"I'm so fucking excited to see our regulars lose their shit."

For some reason, I think back to just how excited Rachel was when she found out that I got into law school in NYC, which meant that I didn't have to live in another state and away from her and our other friends.

* * *

_As I cross the threshold into my apartment, tripping over a non-existent groove in the floor, I realize that I am officially intoxicated._

_But hey, I deserve it. I got into fucking Columbia Law School._

_"Santana's going to laaaaaaaw school," my equally intoxicated companion draws out._

_ "Santana fucking Lopez attorney-at-law." Rachel Berry spins around in a circle in the middle of the kitchen area with her arms out._

_"Where is it? Where's the letter?!" Suddenly, she's on a mission to find my acceptance letter._

_"On the counter somewhere over there," I lazily gesture, with a loose hand, plopping myself down on the top of the back of the couch._

_"Aha! Where are your fridge magnets? This needs to go on the fridge, Santana!" she proclaims with her typical domineering passion._

_"I don't have any fucking magnets," I laugh, bringing my eyebrows together in judgment. I'm Santana Lopez. Santana Lopez doesn't have fridge magnets. Fridge magnets are for losers._

_I can't quite bring her into focus with my eyes as she rummages around my kitchen._

_"Tape! I have tape!" She screams, shooting her hand that's holding the tape into the air in triumph._

_"It needs to stay here. Just like you'll be staying right here with me where you belong. I mean, you know, with me and our friends." She smacks the letter onto the fridge after constructing an adhesive back. She starts pulling out extra strips, unnecessarily, to attach to the front._

_"Sometimes I can't decide if drunk you is annoying as fuck or damn fucking cute," I laugh. She pauses at the fridge as soon as she absorbs my words._

_"You think I'm cute?" Rachel turns and the expectation on her features is enough to break anyone's heart._

_"I don't not think you're not cute," I respond, not wanting to give Rachel Berry the satisfaction of knowing that I think she's downright adorable sometimes._

_"That doesn't make any sense. That was like a triple negative." She shakes her head, slapping the tape onto the counter before crossing the room to approach me._

_"Does that make a positive or a negative?" I squint my eyes as if that will help me sort through the thought._

_"It doesn't make anything. It's grammar, not math," she corrects me with borderline condescension._

_Before I know it, she's in front of me._

_She smells sharp and flowery. For some reason, it makes me feel safe. _

_Her breathing seems shallower than usual, and as she places one small hand on each of my thighs, I notice that the air between us has shifted. _

_"I like it when you're bitchy." There's a husk to my voice that I can hear, but I don't understand. I also don't know why four tequila shots and an unknown number of Jack and diets suddenly made me complimentary toward my friend, but here I am._

_It's her damn fault for getting so hot shortly after she started at NYADA. It was impossible for anyone, myself included, to not notice her after that. Not that Rachel Berry was ever one to sink into the background. She was always noticeable, but not like **that**._

_"You do? Do you ever like anything else about me?" There's that expectant look again. It's laced with such vulnerability that I can't help but continue my out of character complimentary streak._

_"I like it when you sing," I begin, and she smiles with a tilt of her head, stepping between my legs. I don't recall spreading them for her. _

_What the hell am I doing?_

_"I like that dress," I continue, and I definitely, definitely do. I never understood how someone so short could have such long legs. I've had people say similar things about mine, but I have at least a couple inches on Rachel in the height department._

_My eyes are roaming freely, and she looks more than pleased about it. I've never done this so openly. I don't know why I'm doing it now. She gasps quietly under my gaze, as soon as my eyes reach the cleavage of her dress._

_Her lips look redder than usual, and I know it's not her lipstick. They almost appear to be swollen._

_"And these." The tip of my forefinger rolls down her top lip, and then bottom lip before I've even registered reaching out my hand. _

_She releases an almost inaudible whimper._

_The last time we kissed, it was at my after Prom party in high school, and it only happened because I was paid $50 to do it, $20 of which was put down by Rachel herself (although it was Finn's money)._

_I remember thinking that despite my disgust at the idea of kissing Rachel Berry, it wasn't terrible, and that she was a competent enough kisser._

_She glances down at my finger, following it with her eyes, as it leaves her mouth._

_Her hair is mussed, and her hands are applying more pressure to my thighs. It's almost enough weight to propel me forward, but I really do not require the assistance. _

_My nails scrap down the top of her hands, as we both shift forward. Lips hovering, she makes the first contact. She surprises me, nipping at my lower lip before pushing her lips against mine. _

_This kiss, in comparison to our first, is nowhere near terrible, and no one had to pay me for it._

_I don't know what I expected. Perhaps I expected some hesitancy on her part because we had been friends for so long, and we had always had a strange, and at times hurtful, dynamic._

_But there is nothing hesitant._

_Rachel Berry is kiss dominating me._

_Her lips slide against mine, and I find that I'm returning her kiss with as much hunger as she is giving._

_She tastes like apple martinis and it mixes delightfully with the far more acidic taste on my own tongue._

_I have not provided her, as I had years before, with rules about where her hands needed to be. Maybe that would have been a smart idea, because before I know it, she's reaching behind her back to unzip her dress._

_She seems to be struggling with the task, because her lips slow against mine. I may not have the clearest of heads, but I do know that I want to do anything I can to help her out of her dress. My hands reach behind her, and she smiles widely against my lips._

_She shimmies adorably for a quick second to make sure her dress falls before raising her hands to my cheeks. Her brown eyes focus on mine, as best as they can given their slightly glossy state, and I decide that I like them like this._

_I recognize something there that I haven't seen in what feels like forever. I can't name it. Still, it's familiar. It beckons me, but a surge of trepidation rises to meet the siren's call that I have found there._

_She presses her lips to mine once again, and they are full and soft, and her tongue caresses mine with not just a message of want, but with a clear message of adoration and reverence as well._

_I'm now able to put a finger on the sensation that I felt just moments ago._

_Rachel is kissing me like she loves me. I haven't been kissed like that since Quinn._

**_Quinn._**

_"Rachel. No." I raise my hands to stop any further progress of her body against mine. Unfortunately my hands happen to fall on the lace of her bra. I quickly drop them to the top ridge of the couch instead._

_"No?" Her eyes meet mine in surprise. I don't blame her. After all, I was showing all signs of enthusiastic consent until about three seconds ago._

_I hate myself for letting it progress to this point._

_"I can't do this with you," I inhale._

_ She looks slightly embarrassed, but doesn't make any move to cover herself. I want to hug her, but all of that skin against the thin fabric of my dress doesn't seem like a recipe for successful avoidance of where this was headed originally._

_"Why not?" she poses, and it seems like the simplest of questions._

_"I've hurt too many people. I can't hurt you like that."_

_"Hurt me? Santana unless you have some violent fetish that you haven't told me about, I am very certain that I will enjoy any pain that I endure."_

_Fuck._

_I must be drunk if Rachel's usual habit of over explanation is turning me on._

_"Are you attracted to me?" she challenges me, forcing me to make eye contact._

_I swallow. Yes. I don't know how or when it happened, but somewhere along the line I started to view Rachel as an attractive woman rather than an annoying girl._

_"Yes or no, Santana?"_

_"Yes," I respond honestly. She deserves that much._

_Her hands are on her hips. I discover that her bossy pose's punch isn't diminished by the fact that she's standing in only her underwear._

_"Then why the hell not?" She claps her hands back down on my thighs. It's not a sexual movement by any means, but it still sends a shiver through me. _

_"Because you're my friend!"_

_"Since when has that stopped you?! I know you and Sadie still sleep together sometimes, and you used to sleep with Brittany when you were just friends. Why am I different?" She calls me out._

_"Brittany was messed up for a long time because of that, and Sadie doesn't have feelings for me anymore. Sex isn't casual for you, Rachel. You tried that, remember? You said yourself that it has to mean something."_

_"Would it be so bad if it meant something?"_

_"No. Fuck, Rachel, I didn't mean it like that. Of course it would mean something to me; you're one of my best friends. It would just mean something different to you than it would to me."_

_"It doesn't have to. We can pretend otherwise, just for tonight. Let me be your stranger, Santana." Her breath comes without warning against my neck, and I am sorely tempted._

_"You're a great actress, Rachel. One of the best I've ever seen, but you don't need to be anyone else. Not for us. Not for this." I reach for her chin with the crook of my finger, guiding her face away from my neck to focus the best I can on her eyes. _

_"Would it really be so awful for you to think of me as more than a friend?" She inquires softly. It amazes me how such a talented, beautiful, and successful woman could be so vulnerable. _

_"Of course not. There's nothing wrong with you, Rachel, it's m-"_

_"If you're about to give me the it's not you, it's me speech, you can just save it." She bites, removing her hands from my thighs, and stepping back from my touch. _

_I resign myself to the fact that I won't be pleasing her in this conversation, and I decide on another strategy instead._

_"I'll go grab you pajamas and we'll watch whatever fruity musical you want." I suggest._

_"Santana." She stops me as soon as my ass slides off the couch._

_"What?" I ask even though it is apparent in her eyes that she requires more of an explanation._

_"You want the honest truth? I loved someone once, and I'm not sure if I'll ever feel that way about anyone else again. But, it's not fair for me to be with anyone unless I do feel that way. Do you understand that? You deserve to be that for someone."_

_"Who was it?"_

_I sigh, and glance away. There is a part of me that wants to tell her. I want to explain fully, and I want to rant and rave about how stupid I feel to be not completely over someone more than three years after we've broken up. But, as far as I know, Quinn's still locked in a closet somewhere in New Haven, and it isn't my secret to tell._

_"No. You don't have to say it." She snatches her dress from the floor and haphazardly covers herself with the material._

_I often wonder how many pieces Rachel put together that day she found me drunk in the apartment that I shared with my mother._

_"I've been on Broadway and yet I still can't compete with the perfect blonde cheerleading captain. She's not even here, Santana! She isn't in your life. She wasn't out with us celebrating you tonight! She doesn't know you anymore! She's a memory!" She stomps, and I'm momentarily flashed back to all of the fits she used to throw in the choir room when things weren't going her way._

_I'm not amused however. I get how pathetic this is, I get how pathetic I am. More than anyone._

_"You think I don't know that? I'm just trying to not fuck anyone else over, okay?" I raise my voice, inadvertently hitting my hand on the side of the couch. _

_She stills, and she shakes her head at me. For some reason, the anger and frustration has left her eyes. _

_"You're a mess." Her smile is sympathetic, and I let out a breath that I didn't know I was holding._

_ I don't want to lose her like I lost Quinn. I don't want to screw her over like I did Brittany. I don't want to hurt her and waste her time like I did Sadie. _

_I'm eternally grateful when she crosses the room to lift the movie disc she had left over here last time. I groan because Les Misérables is so fucking depressing, but I would give her just about anything she wanted right now. Save for sex, that is._

_"Watch your mouth or your only clothing options will be that dress or something from Puck's dirty laundry." I threaten. She's right though, I am a bit of a mess. _

_"You're forgetting a very obvious third option." She winks at me with a smirk, and my breath catches at the thought._

_No, Santana. No. We just went over this._

_"If I cared about you any less, I would fuck that smirk right off of your face," I tease right back, and I pray that this dynamic of ours doesn't get us into further trouble in the future._

* * *

After Rachel insists that I need a nap just as much as she does, if not more, she sleeps in my bed with me to make sure that I don't sneak off to productivity. It's actually very nice to have someone in my bed for some purpose other than sex.

We couldn't have been asleep more than 30 minutes before a figure standing above the bed startles me awake.

"Did you show her yet?" Puck prods, digging his finger into my hip over the blanket. He's such a child sometimes, I swear to god.

"Jesus fucking Christ. I don't need to start locking the front door, I need to start locking my bedroom door," I groan as Rachel's eyes blink open, slightly stunted by her mascara sticking.

"Show me what, Noah?" she mumbles groggily, having decided to keep her eyes shut instead.

"Her new toy." He smiles down at me like a proud older brother.

At that, Rachel cocks a sleepy eyebrow in my direction. She obviously has a particular genre of toys in mind. She's crazy if she thinks I would go around showing those off, however.

"He doesn't mean anything like _that_." I give him a look to tell him to shut up. The last thing I need is for Rachel to lecture me on this, which is exactly what she would do.

"Oh I'll mean it like that if it would finally lead to you two banging instead of being two lame, but mind-blowingly hot girls sleeping together fully clothed." He grins. Sometimes I think he wants me to get laid more than I do.

"You've always been a pig," Rachel remarks in disgust, before sitting upright to roll her neck.

"It's why I don't eat pork. It'd be originalism." Puck allows the insult to roll right off of his back.

"Cannibalism." Rachel and I correct in unison, and I stretch my hands over my head, knocking the tips of my fingers on the headboard above me.

"Whatever. So did you show her?" he asks again.

"No, and I didn't do so for a reason," I snarl, giving him my best warning look.

"What is it?" Rachel's curiosity is finally piqued, and she squeezes my knee in an attempt to illicit a response.

"We got her a bike last month." Puck's excitement is tangible. He shows that damn motorcycle to everyone who will look at it with him.

"Uh…does it have a bell and a basket?" Rachel turns her head slowly to appraise my response.

"Not that kind of bike," I offer finally.

"You bought one of Puck's death machines?! Santana Lopez!" She's yelling, just as I knew she would.

"He was able to get me a really good deal and it's really convenient for work!" I defend myself.

Also, Puck needed the sale to qualify for a promotion. I deliberately leave that part of the story out.

"In New York City? You're suicidal!" A pillow strikes my face and I roughly snatch it away from her hand.

"You two constantly remind me of the opening to a bad porno except you never get to the good part," Puck grumbles as he leaves my bedroom.

"Who says we haven't?" Rachel challenges back and I push the pillow into her stomach with a mirthful glare.

"Puckzilla is never wrong about this!" he calls back.

"Talking about yourself in third person doesn't make you omnipotent!" I shout as Rachel swats me again with yet another pillow. I didn't fully understand how much I had missed her laugh until that second.

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

"I don't know what I'm doing!" I sigh, falling over onto my bed in resignation.

"Yes you do. You're going to wear the dress from the third picture you sent me with the heels that you wore to your studio showing last year," Mercedes coaxes via speakerphone.

"I shouldn't be doing this at all."

"And why is it again that you are refusing to take anyone with you?" she inquires, even though we already had this same conversation yesterday when I called her panicking about it.

"I don't want Santana to think that I brought a date to her performance. Not that I think she would care. _Ugh._ Also, how could I possibly submit anyone else to the awkwardness that could be tonight?" I complain, covering my face with my hands.

"You're overthinking things, doll."

"Did she ever ask you about me?" I roll over to bring my face closer to the phone. It took me awhile to gather the nerve to ask, but I figure if I'm already going this far, I might as well jump in feet first.

"No," she answers simply, and I frown.

"Maybe she wasn't curious or didn't care anymore," I muse out loud, ignoring the weight on my chest.

"Or maybe she was respecting your wishes," Mercedes shoots back, and it is a logical enough reason. I haven't exactly been dealing in logic, as of late, however.

"When's the last time you saw her?"

"December, at Rachel's premiere." I can only imagine how stunning Santana must of looked. I am sure that she was pure glamour.

It's odd to finally be talking openly about her.

"Did she seem happy?"

"She seemed like Santana. All guts and verbal fortitude," Mercedes laughs, and it's enough to make me smile, before realization hits me once again.

"What am I doing? This is insane."

"Puck called me a few times over the years." She ignores the assertion that I've made dozens of times in this conversation alone and stuns me with her randomness instead.

"Okay? Aren't you two kinda friends?" It's not that odd, in my opinion, for friends to call one another. I know that, unlike me, Mercedes kept in touch with many of our old friends.

"We used to be, but I think he became fed up when I didn't budge on giving him your number no matter how much he begged or threatened."

My hands ball into fists on the comforter, guilt washing over me in strong waves.

"I wonder why he wanted it so desperately. I'm so sorry, Mercedes. I never meant to hurt your friendships," I apologize genuinely, wishing that I had been able to find another alternative that would not have negatively impacted my closest friend.

"I made my own choices, Quinn. Just like you made yours. Don't think on that too hard. You've been an incredible inspiration to me these last few years. Now, you go on and do what's best for your head and your heart. If trying to reach out to Santana is what's best, then that's what you need to do."

"I don't know what I ever did to deserve such a fiercely loyal friend."

"You were you, baby girl, it's all you ever needed to be."

"Okay." I inhale deeply. "I can do this." I say it more for myself than for my phone partner, because, really, I'm the one that needs convincing.

* * *

As I scan the modestly crowded bar, I have a moment of pure self-consciousness. I think perhaps that my dress is a tad too boho-chic for this scene. The bar is filled with people in tight jeans and even tighter dresses.

I've never been at a bar by myself. I don't know where I'm supposed to sit if I don't see anyone I recognize. The medium sized stage is empty except for instruments and a messy looking fellow who is tinkering with a speaker. They must be between sets, because I definitely didn't come early enough for the show to have not started at all.

Every table is full, and I have yet to see a familiar face. Feeling anxious, I approach the bar.

I haven't even made it through a complete horde of people when a silky smooth low voice calls out to me.

"Well _hello_, beautiful." He's handsome and well-dressed, but there's something about him that tells me that I wouldn't trust him to even watch my cat (if I had one, that is, but in any case, I've heard they are rather self-sufficient).

I smile politely back, and decide to continue my journey to the bar.

"Nuh uh, no. Don't do that." My eyes fall on the owner of the reprimanding voice.

She's all flowing red hair, and piercing blue eyes. Time has only been kind to her. I had no idea that Sadie was still friendly with everyone.

She doesn't look as surprised to see me as I do her.

"Quinn?" I'm crushed in a hug before I can hope to analyze the expression on Sadie's face. Kurt's cologne isn't overwhelming, and he still smells like a mixture of hair product and fresh rain detergent. It's definitely changed, but is still refreshingly familiar.

"I love the hair! It's perfect for your face." He takes a short strand of it between his fingers as soon as he steps back. Apparently the years didn't serve to build any personal space boundary between us.

He looks absolutely thrilled to see me, it's a relief that I honestly did not expect to experience tonight. His hands are on my shoulders, and he's just grinning at me. It's a good feeling.

The moment is interrupted by a taller, more muscular man, who has shouldered his way through the crowd. His head is still shaved, just like I last remember it.

"Hey, Blondie," Puck greets me without any warmth.

He's cold, and there's something unrecognizable in his eyes. It's not an emotion I've ever seen him direct at me before. I swallow and gather my bearings. I knew this wouldn't be all rainbows and butterflies.

"I don't get a hug? It's been years, Puck." I try to smile in attempt to make whatever interaction is coming a friendly one.

"I'll give you a hug if you leave right after," he offers, and I barely keep the grimace at his harshness from my face.

"Puck, ease up," Sadie orders, standing to place a manicured hand on his forearm. I don't know why she of all people would come to my aid.

A voice crackles over the speakers before I can say anything else.

"Good evening again, everyone. We're stripping down for a couple songs here. We want to give you all the chance to truly hear the talent that graces us every second Saturday here at Lights. So I'll retreat to my piano, and while I do that, I want you all to welcome Santana Lopez back to the stage." The messy man from a few minutes ago sweeps his hands out, and I don't even get the chance to see Santana's entrance because Puck is growling in my ear.

"Get out of here, Quinn," he commands, and I recoil from him with a glare.

"What the hell is your problem?" I snap.

"Thanks, Ben. You're not so bad yourself. All of this talk of talent reminds me of something. I brought someone here for you all tonight. She's been focusing on other things aside from singing the last couple years, and it's a damn shame." Santana's voice is even more intoxicating than I remember. It's impossible to ignore, even with Puck glowering at me.

"Let's go outside," he suggests, and I agree. Maybe because I know it would be difficult to talk anything out in the bar, and maybe because the sound of Santana's voice filling the room is just plain overwhelming.

He leads me out a side door to an empty alley and I don't have to repeat my question.

"Who do you think you are coming here like this? Santana is happy, and you're going to come in and fuck everything up? You shouldn't be here after what you did to her."

"What I did to her?"

"Yes. Did you know that her grandmother died her sophomore year, and her father forbade her from going to the funeral? She didn't even get to say goodbye. And her mother was diagnosed with breast cancer while Santana was in the middle of finals during her first year in law school?"

It makes my heart ache to think about how terrible it must have been for Santana. Santana's abuela had told Santana that she never wanted to see or speak to her again when Santana came out to her. To have the woman pass without any resolution must have been devastating for my ex-girlfriend.

As for her mother, I can't even imagine how scary that must have been for her.

"I didn't do those things to her," I respond matter-of-factly. In truth, I do feel guilty for not being there; believe me, I do.

"You weren't there. You allowed her to believe that you were someone that she could truly rely on, and then you weren't there. You made sure you weren't there. Mercedes wouldn't even give me your number or any contact information so I could find you. She needed you. So what, you got a job in the city? Great, good for you. Welcome to town, Quinn Fabray." He makes me sound anything but welcome.

"But, from now on, keep your distance," he finishes with a sneer. It's almost admirable how protective he is over her. Say what you want about Santana Lopez, but people are seemingly always passionate when it comes to her. One way or another.

"I couldn't…I couldn't be anything to her after she broke it off. I wasn't strong enough," I admit, despite how difficult it is to cop to my own weakness in front of my hostile former friend.

"And that's cool, you did what you had to do to preserve one Quinn Fabray, but that just means that you don't deserve to be in her life."

"You and I were friends once too, Puck," I remind him. I used to consider him to be one of my closest friends. Especially towards the end of our senior year.

"Funny you should mention that. Your phone number stopped working for me the moment it stopped working for Santana."

I know I didn't just abandon Santana. At least Santana had some idea why I did it, many of the others, I left completely in the dark. It wasn't an easy choice, but it was one I had to make.

"You were all so close to her. I couldn't be near her. I couldn't handle even hearing about her," I explain myself further and he shakes his head to say it isn't good enough.

"We still are close if you haven't noticed. We took the whole family shit seriously. Except for you." He points at me, and I come to the conclusion that this isn't going to go anywhere positive or productive.

"I'm going back inside," I inform him, and I step away from him to do just that.

"You're so fucking selfish." He throws the insult at my back, and I dip my head slightly before I turn back to him.

"I was. I did what I needed to do for me. I don't deny that."

"If you think this was a harsh welcome, wait until Rachel sees you." He smiles at me with enough disdain to make my stomach lurch.

"As in, Rachel Berry? I'm really _not_ afraid of that midget starlet," I scoff.

"She's not the same girl anymore, and Santana has definitely noticed," he continues.

"What are you trying to do here, Puck? Really? What's the motive?" I step close enough to him that I can feel his elevated body heat from his night's performance.

"I won't let you destroy her again."

"She broke up with _me_, Puck. She left _me_. And you know what? She seems like she is still very much capable of taking care of herself. She doesn't need some washed up guard dog to protect her. If Santana doesn't want me here, she can tell me herself," I finish, before determinedly walking back inside.

I push my way back into the crowd. The bar is far noisier than it should be for a piano cover of Sex on Fire.

As my eyes find the stage, I realize that it's because Rachel Berry is singing with Santana. I've seen her on TV, and I even went to one of her movies last year. She looks just as different, on that stage, from the 18-year-old aspiring star as she did on TV.

She is sex, sophistication, and charisma. Her chemistry with Santana is undeniable. It makes my heart hurt in a way that it shouldn't after so many years.

A stranger bumps into me as I near Kurt once again. I place a hand on Kurt's shoulder to keep myself from teetering over, and he claps his hand over mine in a gesture of welcome affection.

Sadie smiles at me with something resembling sympathy or sadness, and I'm utterly unnerved by it.

Kurt introduces me around the table, and I do my best to respond politely but it's everything I can do to keep my eyes away from the stage.

The song is ending and Santana hits a note higher than I've ever heard her hit. She's only become better over the years. I honestly hadn't thought it possible.

As they harmonize, Rachel holds her last note of the song, and smiles deliberately over at her table of friends. She scans the whole group and right over me, but her eyes quickly bounce back to me.

Without warning, she suddenly drops the microphone on the floor, causing a high pitched shriek to rip through the speakers. More than one person covers their ears at the noise, and she's moving through the crowd before most can recognize what is happening.

I'm stunned when she arrives in front of me, and I barely register Sadie's gasp, and Kurt's out cry as Rachel swings her arm back. She hits me with more force than I would have ever guessed her tiny body was capable of. I literally stumble to the side when she slaps me. I instinctively reach for my face as soon as her hand leaves my cheek.

I think Santana is yelling something about demanding to know what Berry thinks she's doing, before I recognize Santana's arms as those wrapping around Rachel to pull the smaller woman back from me.

As soon as she has secured Rachel in her arms, Santana eyes seek out the victim of the starlet's violence. They find me.

She almost loses her grip on Rachel. It's our first eye contact in over seven and a half years, and it runs right through me.

I'm six-years-old again, and I'm helping Santana climb over the back fence, because Santana's father is home, and he's angry.

I'm nine-years-old again, and Santana has knocked a kid's head against the bus window because he stole my backpack and spit on my new coat.

I'm thirteen-years-old again, and I can't stop crying, even though no more tears will come, because my best friend has abandoned me without warning.

I'm seventeen-years-old again, and I kiss Santana, finally, for the first time under her parents' porch. She makes love to me for the first time under the same porch, mere months later.

I'm eighteen-years-old again, and I'm promising forever into these same eyes, and I mean it. It's the truest thing I've ever known.

"We're leaving, Berry. I don't need a new client." Santana rips her gaze from mine, and it feels as though she rips and tears at my heart as she does so.

"But I haven't made the tabloids in months and this would be worth every headline." Rachel actually kicks the air in an attempt to free herself.

"Puck, jacket," Santana orders, and he throws the coat over Rachel's head. Santana continues to hold Rachel in the bear hug, carrying her out the alley door that Puck and I had exited through earlier.

More than a few people have their camera phones out, and many of them, I realize, are focused on me.

"Help her." I hear Kurt beg before a hand presses me down, and firmly nestles me into a man's shoulder. He is covering my face as he guides me out the same door.

"Sebastian. Get the dumpster with Puck," Santana barks as me as soon as me and my temporary protector reach the night air.

"This is a fire exit!" Sebastian protests as he releases me.

"I'll call the manager in five minutes to have her move it. It's fine. Just fucking do it." Santana is off in a trot, practically pushing Rachel forward through the alley.

"I am covered in the scent of earnest man whore! Ew!" Rachel complains loud enough for me to hear, as Sebastian and Puck make quick work of the dumpster.

"Breathe it in, my tiny warrior," Puck laughs heartily, and Santana removes her own leather jacket to replace Puck's over Rachel instead.

She tosses Puck's coat at Kurt and he looks down at it in confusion.

"Over your head, and crouch down so you appear at least similar to her height. You and Sadie are going to walk around to the front. Make sure the crowd sees you before you take a left away from the bar. Don't remove the coat until either they've caught up with you or you're at least two blocks away. Roll up your pants, and switch shoes with Rachel. Hurry!" Santana orders, and Kurt immediately whines as Rachel's heels are tossed at him as well. Under different circumstances, it would have been enough to make me laugh.

Despite his complaints, Kurt hustles to do as he is told.

Santana reminds me of her mother so much in that instant that it's almost eerie. She's almost unrecognizable. Every inch of her has seemingly slipped into a different mode. Her voice, her expression, and her body language are all different. She's in fixer mode, and she came up with all of this in mere seconds. It's impressive, but it also makes it very evident just how much she has changed.

"Sebastian, take _her_ down that way. Make sure they don't get anymore pictures, and I'll call you in 30." _Her_ is me. She doesn't even address me by name.

Kurt puts his hand on my shoulder as if to steady himself while he changes into his new shoes, but his hand slides down my arm, and slips something into my hand.

It feels like paper. I push it into one of the side pockets of my purse, recognizing for the first time just how much my face stings. It makes my eyes water.

But, watching Santana walk away without so much as saying my name is a much more severe brand of pain.

"You're not even going to acknowledge me, Santana? Really?" I call after her. I could not care any less if my face ends up on the internet right now. Not when Santana is walking away from me yet again.

Santana hands Rachel over to Puck, and he stops immediately. She glares at him and motions for him to continue. He does so with only a beat of hesitation.

She steps forward to me and I've lost every breath. She doesn't open her mouth to speak, but her eyes send my pulse racing.

It's just a few moments. It doesn't feel like any more or less than that. Time unfortunately does not slow for us. It's not enough. Her eyes are unreadable, as if she's deliberately shielding her emotions from me.

I urge my words to come. What they would be? I'm not sure. I am also not sure when I'll get an opportunity like this again. But, what's a girl to say?

This isn't exactly catching up over coffee. Just coming here was an act of desperation.

Do I tell her that I've been watching her walk by me for weeks?

Do I tell her that she sounded incredible tonight?

Do I tell her how breathtaking I find her to be?

Do I tell her that my stomach is in fits every time she's in the vicinity?

How I wish I had the words. How I wish I could convey how much I had missed her over the years. How I wish I could make her understand just how much I would give to be given the opportunity to get to know the woman that she is now.

But Sebastian and Puck are shouting, and my hands are shaking, and her flawless features leave me breathless. I used to call her a breath thief. That much has not changed.

Her eyes scan my face one more time, lingering on what I would guess is a very red cheek. Her lips part slightly, I believe in concern, if I remember that particular mannerism correctly.

An instant later, she's done waiting, and she, too, says nothing before she spins on her heels into a jog to catch up with Puck and Rachel.

"Kinda cold huh?" I hear Sadie remark from behind me.

"Heel, ginger," Kurt calls to her, and before I can hope to find any words for either of them, I'm being tugged away by Sebastian.


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter IV**

**A/N: My beta ckeller48 is amazing. That is all.**

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

I'm an adult. I have a job, a business, I pay my own bills, and I make my own decisions. I like control. Even when every important decision was made for me, I thrived on control with every smaller decision that was mine to make. Whether it was organizing my closet, or which route I would take to class, control has always been important to me.

So no, I have no real idea of why I'm allowing someone else, a practical stranger, to have such control over me right now.

"Get in," Sebastian commands, but my hand hesitates before making actual contact with the black SUV's passenger door handle.

"This is crazy. I don't even know you." I try to refrain from allowing my voice to echo too loudly in the parking garage.

"You're right, and I don't know you from Eve, but we both know Santana. Do you think she would put you in the wrong hands?" he counters.

I may not know exactly who Santana is anymore, and yet, I am completely confident that she would never put me in danger.

I get in.

"Are you going to take me home?"

"No. Did you drive here?"

"No." This exchange feels so foreign and strange to me, despite how mundane it is.

"Good. At least we don't have to worry about returning your car to you."

"Where are you taking me?" I question once we pull out onto the street.

"To headquarters as far as I know. We'll see if that changes when Santana calls," he offers as a vague response.

It is really strange to go from never hearing my ex-girlfriend's name to hearing it over and over again in just one night.

My phone vibrates repeatedly as he turns another corner. I retrieve it from my purse and notice that I have two missed calls and three texts from Mercedes.

"Give me your phone," he demands.

"I'm not giving you my phone." I laugh incredulously, baffled at how the night lead me here, to this. I think I'm in shock at this point.

"Then turn it off. You're not to call or text anyone."

"Who the hell do you think you are?"

"As Kurt introduced me earlier, I'm Sebastian Smythe, I work with Santana at Lopez and Associates, and I believe that you, my dear, just became my newest client." He smiles wickedly over at me before reaching into my lap to press the power button down on my phone.

As upset as I am at the intrusion, I am far more bothered by his assertion.

"What? Why? I didn't do anything."

I can't imagine why I would need a lawyer. If that's even what Sebastian is, anyway. I'm really not sure what he does.

"Oh honey, it doesn't work that way. You may have been the one who was slapped, but you could easily be the one who gets spanked if you aren't careful," he purrs.

"I don't kn-" I begin.

"I don't expect that you would. What are you a school teacher?" he guesses.

"No."

"But you work with kids don't you?" Sebastian asserts, and I'm not in the proper mindset to even comprehend how he may have gathered that.

"Yes, but-"

"Before Santana calls I need to know what your interests are," he interrupts me again.

"My interests in what?"

"Just listen, Barbie. Wait until I ask a question to speak. Are you planning on pressing charges?"

"Charges, what are you talking about?"

"You were assaulted. Assaulted by someone who has more resources than the average person. She has money. She also has every reason to want to make this go away. Which means you have options. You can file charges, you can sue for damages, hell, we can settle this so you'll get paid just to keep your pretty mouth shut. What do you want?"

"I don't want any of those things. I don't want her money."

"And you have no interest in the notoriety that an incident like this could bring you?"

"No. Absolutely not."

"Okay. Good. Then we can move forward. Although you are probably losing out on a _pretty_ penny. Pity," he laments.

"If your interests change you tell me immediately. For now we do as much as we can to keep the kiddos from looking at you funny, and to keep your name out of every entertainment reporter's mouth."

"I don't have money to pay you." After my father cut me off, I had to take out loans to get my M.F.A. Between those payments and NYC rent, I'm barely making ends meet.

"I didn't expect that you would. The payment isn't your concern. Unless your interests become adverse to my associate's, in which case, you will probably need to seek other counsel."

He might as well be speaking Greek.

A ringing sound erupts from the dash, and Sebastian reaches forward midway through the first ring to press a button as he stops at a red light.

"What the fuck is wrong with you, Rachel?! You can't go around slapping people. This isn't a movie! This is real life. And there are consequences! No. Keep your head down!" Santana's voice comes clearly through the speakers.

Sebastian smiles, allowing Santana to finish her rant before he interrupts.

"Lopez, we're connected. Ms. Fabray can hear you. I didn't bring a headset." He informs her. I immediately ponder how the conversation would be different if I wasn't listening.

"We picked up Kurt and Sadie and we're headed to the office. I'm assuming you're doing the same?" Santana ignores Sebastian's admission related to me.

For some reason, I am absolutely desperate just to hear her say my name.

It's almost ironic how badly I want it. I deliberately ignored her existence for years, and here I am internally begging for her to acknowledge mine.

"Yes." Sebastian confirms.

"Does she plan on pressing charges?" Of course, instead of speaking to me, she directs the question to him. Once again, I take note of her failure to use my name.

"No. Not at this time," Sebastian answers.

"Okay." She acknowledges simply, before her attention flashes back to her passengers.

"Kurt if you are tweeting, or blogging, or texting right now, I swear on my fucking degree that I will break your phone into a million pieces. Actually, everyone's phones, on the island. Right now." Santana orders.

"You don't trust us-" Puck starts to grumble.

"Who would you have to call, Puck? Whatever booty you have lined up can wait. Put your phone in!" she insists.

"As entertaining as this conversation is _not_, who are we calling in?" Sebastian rolls his eyes at the speakers.

"Margaery, Dean, Paul, and Keith," Santana lists.

"No, I hate working with Margy Pargy. Renee will get what we need done in half the time anyway," Sebastian counters.

"Fine. I'll call them in. I'll see you at the office."

The call ends with a click.

"Within an hour I'm going to know more about you than anyone who has ever been between your thighs." Sebastian's lips spread into another devilish smile and all I can do is grimace and turn my head.

"Joy," I breathe out to the window.

* * *

Sebastian and I arrive first, and he leaves me alone in some giant glassed-in conference room. The others file into the same room not long after, and while I can see Santana outside talking to Sebastian, she doesn't enter.

It's horrible, but I'm grateful that, at the very least, our wordless exchange in the alley was not our last.

Sadie walks in first, followed closely behind by Rachel, Kurt, and then Puck. It's almost as if they chose the line order to be as neutral as possible.

Rachel sits the farthest away from me, and she's clearly pouting. She looks like a puppy that's been kicked. She won't look at anything aside from her hands or the table.

Kurt gives me a hidden wave, and begins to walk to my side of the table, until he glances back and sees Rachel's face. He promptly sits down in the chair nearest to him. Appropriately, it's in the middle of the table.

Sadie sits next to him on the side closest to Rachel, while Puck sits down in the chair directly to the right of the wilted starlet. He, too, appears as though he's received a firm talking to.

Sebastian moves to enter the room, but something Santana says stops him. His hand slides back from the door, but doesn't release it completely. It's cracked just enough for us to overhear their conversation.

"Sebastian, I told you to get her some ice. Look at her cheek for fuck's sake!"

Of course, Santana wouldn't want credit for making sure that I had ice. It is so like her. Well, so much like how I remember her being.

Even in high school when we hated each other, she looked out for me.

I remember back to one night during junior year where we were locked together in a storage room at work. I damaged my foot, during a fit that I threw, when she had really pissed me off. She caught me when I almost fell over, and she ardently insisted that I wrap and elevate my foot.

We said the most hurtful things to one another, and sometimes I wonder how things would have been different if I only had paid more attention to her actions than I did her words.

She still cares enough to make sure I have ice. That much is clear. But who knows, maybe these days, she would do that for anyone.

"I'm not your bitch, Lopez. Do you want my help or not?" Sebastian argues.

"Your hours are getting billed to me, Sebbie. So get the ice, or I _will_ make you my bitch."

With a groan, he relents, and she pushes past him through the door, setting a notepad and pen in front of Sadie, Kurt, and Puck.

"Each of you make a list of every person who you knew at the bar tonight. That includes staff."

"If any of you have contacted anyone since we left the bar you need to tell me now. I'm going to give you back your phones so you can list contact information for everyone on your list. Don't use them for anything else."

The room remains silent. If anyone has contacted anyone else, they aren't admitting it. I thought about calling or texting Mercedes more than once. I'm glad that I didn't. I really would like to avoid any of the disdain that Santana continues to direct at Puck and Rachel. On the other hand, perhaps it would be preferable over being ignored.

She tosses a notepad in front of Rachel, more forcefully than the others. "Everyone who works for you, Rachel. And anyone in the media who owes you a favor, or who you think will want to help you."

She's clearly in her element here. I used to think that the Cheerios' field or the various stages we performed on for Glee suited her. This environment could rival either of those for the top spot.

She sets her laptop down on the table. I frown, realizing that she has yet to look in my direction even once. Everyone else has a task but me. I'm apparently left to just stew. I realize how angry I am that Rachel not only hit me, but also that I've been pulled into this crazy world because of it.

I'm angry at Santana, too. I'm disappointed and irritated with Puck, and I'm just plain confused with Sadie. As for Kurt, I wish I could feel comfortable enough to cross the room to give him a hug. I need it, and he seems like he would be the only willing participant in the room.

I feel very alone and out of place. These were all my friends once (Sadie not so much, but we eventually learned to tolerate each other). They feel like strangers now. I have such fond memories of each of them, and I wonder if that's what they should have stayed as. The thought forms a heavy pit in my stomach.

I turn my head at a soft whirring noise behind me, as the wooden panels reveal multiple televisions. With a few clicks on Santana's keyboard, a wide variety of news stations begin to run with closed captioning on each screen.

"What's Renee's ETA?" Santana asks as soon as Sebastian enters again. He hands me the ice pack with indignation and I immediately press it to my cheek.

It feels nothing short of amazing against my burning skin. I close my eyes at the welcome sensation. It's nice to focus on something else.

"She's in the lot."

"Good. We need to start sifting through these channels. I've already started the recordings."

Sebastian situates himself across from Santana with his own laptop. He busies himself with who knows what immediately, although I occasionally catch him exchanging glances with Kurt, to Kurt's chagrin.

I wonder what my place exactly is here. But, at the same time, it's difficult to complain when I'm in the same room as Santana. _God, that sounds so corny._

I know that the schools I work for wouldn't look kindly on an incident like this. I know that Santana and Sebastian are trying to help me as well as Rachel.

It's just not ideal for me to be left alone with my thoughts right now. Not when I'm torn between wanting to tear Rachel's hair out, kick Puck in the shins, and doing _other things_ with Santana.

She looks beautiful. She's gotten even better at her makeup, which is insane, because I always thought it was flawless in high school. Her dress has her full chest on tasteful display. I briefly recall all of the times her hair formed a curtain over my face while my hands were on that same chest.

It's magnetic.

I can't help but wonder if she feels it, too.

As much as my cheek burns, I'm almost grateful in that moment to Rachel for being an unstable whack job.

Since I've been given no other task, and since it's been years since I've been able to just look at her (not in motion while she's power walking down the street, but sitting in front of me), I allow my eyes to scan her face. Her skin seems to glow more than I remember, but it looks just as soft as it once felt against my face. I crave to feel Santana's cheek bones under my fingertips.

"Stop staring," Santana directs to me, without removing her eyes from her computer screen.

I blush, hard and fast. Now my other cheek is seeking to rival the wounded one's color.

It's the first words that she has said to me in years. _ How appropriate._

I glance away from her to save some of my dignity, and I find that Rachel's eyes are boring furiously into me, while Sadie winks in my direction.

_I'm so confused._

Sebastian has left the room, and returned in the meantime.

"Let me know if this contact information is correct. Also, let me know if you have any other decision making parties that you work with." Sebastian slides papers in my direction, and with one glimpse, I'm amazed by how much information he's gathered about me.

He seats himself down next to me, motioning for me to make eye contact with him. I think it's because he wants to make sure that I understand.

"We'll be providing you with two very skilled people at your job site. They will minimize any interactions with the media and/or paparazzi. You may not see them you may not even know that they are there, but if anyone gets through to you, you either say nothing or you say "no comment". Don't deviate from that. Call me as soon as you can if it happens. My number is here." He slides a business card in front of me before moving to the next topic.

"Berry is a city sweetheart. And she has donated significant money back to the neighborhoods here. She doesn't have _this_ reputation. Which means, that it's likely that people are going to try to vilify you. They'll rifle through your past in effort to explain away Rachel's violent act."

"I slapped her, I didn't break her jaw! Could we please stop acting like this is such an ordeal?" Rachel objects from the other end of the table, clearly exasperated.

"Rachel," Santana chastises, once again, without taking her eyes from her screen.

"She has a role coming up with production people would be displeased to hear that Berry is walking around and assaulting people. We'll be constructing a reasonable explanation over the next couple of hours that we will have you repeat if the need arises. First, we'll need to see how this incident will be portrayed by the media before we can decide if or how we want to react to it."

"We'll prepare statements and approaches for your work. We'll make sure that you keep your job despite the assault."

I'm doing my best to absorb all of the information he is giving me, but the thought of losing my job because I was slapped is absolutely ridiculous to me. I'm about to say as much when Rachel jumps in.

"I didn't assault her!" Rachel protests.

"You don't even know what that word means. Please spend some of the money you've made from your B movie acting on a dictionary before you try to make any more irrelevant, idiotic, uninformed and ill-adv-" Sebastian insults.

"Sebastian, don't talk to her like that," Santana snaps, raising her eyes in contained fury to meet his.

Sebastian's body seems to coil back much like a snake's would before striking.

"It's a Saturday night, and I'm at the office. You think you're going to tell me how I should talk to people?"

"These are _my_ people. Try me, Sebastian. I fucking dare you. You know where the lines are. When you cross them, you and I both know that it's on purpose. You're a conniving little shit."

Their interactions makes me wonder why he was at the bar tonight. They hardly seem like friends.

"Gonna call mommy if I step out of line again, Gladibaby?" he taunts.

"Your reading skills don't come naturally to you, so I will grant you this last reprieve, Sebbie. I'm _not_ someone to be fucked with," she finishes slowly, and I myself, believe every word.

She used to call her mom a reader. She never thoroughly explained to me what exactly that meant. I knew it had something to do with knowing things about others just from observations alone. That is about the extent of my knowledge, however.

"Oh look, darling, the children are at it again."

I look up from the argument to see two, very annoyed looking, people standing by the door of the conference room.

"Renee, Dean, thanks for coming in. I'll brief you in room 3." Santana stands and takes her laptop with her out the door.

"Goody," Dean responds sarcastically.

I review the information in front of me as the room sits in silence for a few minutes.

"What's that chick's name that we both banged, Sadie?" Puck taps his pen down on his notepad in thought.

"The one who was there tonight? Ah, fuck. It's some kind of stone, I know that." Sadie contemplates.

"Sapphire…or Ruby…?" Puck guesses.

"You are two of the nastiest people I've ever met." Kurt grimaces in disgust.

"Oh don't tell me you've never crossed swords with a friend before," Sebastian remarks.

"Kurt's strictly the monogamous type," Rachel participates matter-of-factly, while focused on her phone and her own list.

"Is that so? Any interest in one night of monogamy?" Sebastian proposes to Kurt, obviously intrigued at the opportunity to corrupt someone.

"None." Kurt shakes his head, and moves away from Sebastian to take a seat next to me instead.

"How's your cheek?" he asks in a low voice.

"It's okay. The ice helps," I respond honestly. I've had worse.

"I looked up some of your work the other day. I never knew that you could do all of that. You really have a gift," he compliments, and my blush threatens to return.

I absently wonder what made him randomly research my work.

"Thank you, Kurt, that means-" I begin to express my gratitude, but I'm interrupted.

"Uh oh. Mommy's home," Sebastian smirks.

My stomach jumps as I, too, notice the arrival of Maribel Lopez. The woman appears as though she hasn't aged a day since I last saw her.

Santana exits the other conference room upon her mother's entrance. It seems as though they start in on an argument straight away.

After a few frustrated expressions on Santana's part, Maribel Lopez sweeps into the room. She immediately smacks the back of Puck's head with the palm of her hand before wrapping her arms around Rachel.

"One of my babies was in trouble and you didn't think calling me was appropriate, mija?" she chastises her daughter who is standing with her arms crossed by the door. Santana rolls her eyes before making her departure again.

"Ouch. Why did I get hit?" Puck rubs the back of his head.

"I'm sure you had a hand in this, Noah," Maribel explains.

"Nope. He was too busy intimidating women in alleyways," Kurt condemns.

Puck glares at Kurt, allowing his hand to fall from his head.

"What? Clearly Santana needs to tighten your leash," Kurt adds.

"Whose side are you on here, Kurt?" Puck growls.

"There aren't any sides!" Kurt throws up his hands, smacking them down on the table next to me.

"Your chest banging, and your Lindsay Lohan antics circa 2011 need to stop. We're all adults here. How about we act like it?" He points to Puck and then to Rachel.

"This seems like a very specific personal matter that you need to hash out. Come, Sebastian. Let's give them a few minutes. You have calls to make, anyway." Maribel guides Sebastian out of the room with her.

"Okay before this gets out of hand, everyone has had a few drinks and I just think that-" Sadie attempts to mediate.

"How dare you talk to me like that in front of Ms. Lopez!" Rachel shouts at Kurt.

"News flash, Barbra! You can crawl right up inside and roll around in Maribel's ass and Santana still won't wake up tomorrow morning in love with you." Kurt loses it.

_What the hell is going on?_

"What a fucked up thing to say." Sadie flashes an aghast expression in Kurt's direction.

"Someone needed to say it," Kurt sighs before sitting heavily back in his chair.

"No. I don't think they did Kurt. Not like this," Sadie argues, as both her and Puck appraise Rachel with concern.

Rachel's lower lip is trembling.

There must be some truth to Kurt's accusation if Rachel is reacting this way.

My god, is something going on between Rachel and Santana? I could recall Rachel having a weird little crush on Santana, but I never imagined that Santana would give her the time of day. To be fair, the Rachel in front of me is very different from the girl I knew years ago.

Still, it makes my stomach twist in the most unpleasant of fashions.

"Is that why you hit me?" I ask her without a second thought. I certainly deserve to know why her hand made such forceful contact with my face.

The slap makes a little more sense now. While it's unnerving to imagine the two of them together, I am positive that it isn't the only thing that has changed over the years. If I am going to stick around, and that is a big IF, then I need to get used to people not fitting succinctly into the memories I have of them.

"No. I hit you because this is what you do, Quinn. You ruin everything!" Rachel accuses, and I wonder if Sadie really meant it when she said everyone had consumed a few drinks.

I'm quickly becoming angry again. I can't believe the fucking entitlement of this woman. Movie star or not.

"I can't believe I ever regretted not having you in my life, Rachel." I don't raise my voice to hers.

"Don't pretend that you've ever felt anything for _me_ or for _any_ of these people."

Her words take the wind from me. I do my best not to show it, however. How could any of them believe that I didn't truly care for them?

"You don't know how I feel or how I've felt or what I've been through." I grit my teeth to keep myself from shouting.

"I wonder why that is," Puck interjects.

"Puck," Kurt warns.

"No Kurt, fuck you. You weren't there. It's so fucking easy for you to pass judgment on all of us. Do you know why? You're in some kind of dicky mood, yeah, but it's also because you don't know the half of it." Puck slams his notepad down on the table and stands up.

"Oh boohoo. People go through things. It's called _life_!" Kurt mimics a tear falling.

_Where was Brittany when you needed her to stop the violence?_

"Could we just take a step back? Friendly reminder to everyone here, Santana can take care of herself. She's a big girl, and pretty much a badass, she doesn't need people to fight for her." Sadie motions with her hands for people to calm down.

"I bet you're really wishing you had stayed in the friend circle now, aren't you Quinn?" Kurt remarks to me sarcastically.

"You know, I thought you of all people, Kurt, would stand by me," Rachel confesses.

"I'm not going to condone your crazy bitch behavior. I don't have to unconditionally agree with you merely because we are friends. I'm legitimately ashamed of you right now," Kurt scowls.

"Kurt…" Sadie bites down on her lip.

Rachel's eyes begin to water. She rushes for the door, but it's opened for her before she reaches it. Santana's slender arms are around Rachel before Rachel's first tear can fall.

Now that she's in an embrace, Rachel cries much harder, as I've noticed that many people tend to do once they are offered comfort.

I'm quite envious. I once felt very much at home in those arms. I wonder if it is Rachel who feels similarly now.

Santana has a soothing hand on her friend's hair and she's making a soft "shhing" noise against Rachel's cheek. I wonder if Santana has heard any of the exchange, or if she just came in because she saw Rachel's tortured face.

Santana's eyes are scanning the room, however, as if intent on finding the culprit. Her eyes steady on Kurt's face. They darken almost instantaneously.

She takes Rachel by the hand, and leads her away from the room with a promise of coffee.

"You're in trooouble," Puck teases, returning finally to his seat once again.

"I'm not afraid of her." Kurt crosses his arms in a show of toughness, but his face says it all.

Puck and Sadie both laugh loudly and simultaneously, and finally some of the tension in the room has dissolved. I eventually join them (albeit with quiet laughter covered by my hand), as well, as soon as Sadie points out that Kurt's hands are actually shaking in trepidation.

* * *

I'm finally on my way out two hours later. I've been dismissed with a promise of a ride from the woman at the front desk. Things were a little less tense after Kurt and Rachel's altercation. Kurt apologized to Rachel and hugged her when she came back in the room. It really did remind me of a family. I definitely missed that feeling.

Kurt, Sadie, and Sebastian were still the only ones to acknowledge me directly. To Santana, it was as if I was just another nameless body in the room. It was painful, to say the least.

But I need time to process, and I just want a hot shower, my bed, and possibly a glass of wine.

"My office, Quinn." I hear a voice call as I pass by one of the doors on my way to the front desk.

"Yes?" I peek in the room to see Maribel Lopez seated at her over-sized desk.

"Close the door and sit down, please." She firmly requests.

I'm too tired for this. Whatever it is. Maybe she wants me to sign another paper, or give me more instructions, or maybe she wants to jump on the "Quinn is a terrible person" bandwagon. Whatever the case may be, I don't have the energy for it.

"Mrs. Lopez, I really can't take any-" I express.

"It's Ms. now Quinn. Mr. Lopez and I are no longer married," she corrects.

"I'm sorry to hear that-"

"The usual pleasantries are not necessary. I'm sure you're aware of what my marriage really was."

I obviously didn't share their marital bed, but I had been around for some of their fights, and I was there the day Santana's father disowned her. I only nod in response, because I'm not really sure what the correct polite protocol is for when a woman who used to be a mother figure of sorts to me, points out how obviously screwed up her marriage was.

"You and I, we have more in common than you know. I come from a family with more money than they could ever spend. I did not want for anything material. But affection did not exactly come in droves."

"Why am I sharing this with you? You'll see." I'm sure she read my perplexed, and frankly exhausted, expression.

"In my family, men were supposed to be men and women were supposed to be women. They wanted nothing to do with me when I chose college instead of marriage. I chose my career over my family, which was a choice I made thousands of times after that. Eventually, I met Miguel. He was charming and intelligent, but he was also arrogant and unkind. In truth, he was just another body to warm my bed. I preferred for him to not speak, in general. But then Santana happened, unplanned. I didn't know what I was doing. I had run from family and expectations for all of my adult life. Doing it on my own seemed, impossible and terrifying. A marriage meant that I would have my family's support again, and it meant that Santana would have more family than she would know what to do with. To me, it meant that she would have dozens of other people to fall back on when I wasn't enough."

"I was never fit for the expectations of my family, or the expectations that came with being a wife and a mother. I married a dark and dangerous man, yes. But you see, I thought I was offering Santana a full family, when all I provided for her were people who would never accept her for who she is. It's a wonder that the girl allows anyone in at all."

"As someone who watched you grow up, Quinn, I wanted to first tell you that I am proud of you and what you've done and how very far you've come. You were brave in a way that many others never find the strength to be. And my god, are you a gifted one."

"Thank you, Ms. Lopez." I speak, glancing in the direction of the door. I'm still very unsure as to where this is going.

"With that said, I will choose my family this time, as I have failed to do so in the past. She's never told me what happened between the two of you, but if you intend on becoming a part of her life again, you better intend to stay. There is a reason that my daughter has clung so tightly to the few people who have been consistent in her life. It isn't easy, and I understand the pressure of having someone else depend on you like that, I do. I empathize with the desire to walk away, I can hardly condemn you for it. But don't you dare treat her heart like a swinging door."

"Like you did, you mean?" I shoot back. I'm fed up. I don't want any more lectures, or anyone else telling me who I am now or who I've been. The one person who deserves to say anything to me about Santana, is Santana, and she has only said two words to me all damn fucking night. So, I'm done.

"I did not make my decisions lightly, Ms. Lopez. I did not on a whim decide to change my entire life. I did not flake. I made the conscious choice to be constructively alone for years. It was not my career that I was focused on. It was _me_. It was _my_ entire life. I was not good for _her_, because I was not even good enough for _me_. When you used to fly overseas and away from her, did you ever once do it even partially for her? I couldn't have her compromise her life, as I had mine. But, I was weak. I would have gone back to her if I hadn't detached so completely." I give her an explanation that she doesn't deserve, but I needed to say it, in any case. I needed someone to hear it.

"I don't pretend to know-" She begins again, but I'm in no mood or state to listen to what she has to say anymore.

"Except you _do_. You and Puck and Rachel all pretend that you understand me and my motivations. You may be brilliant, and I am grateful for what your team did for me tonight, but I am not something for you or for anyone else to fix. I'm no longer broken. And you know what? I also can't imagine that Santana would want this. You aren't doing anyone any favors by pretending that you know something about this, because you don't. You _don't_." I repeat, gathering my purse from the floor before I make a hasty and determined exit out of her office and out of the building.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter V**

**A/N: Are y'all tired of hearing about my lovely beta yet? Because I'm not tired of thanking her :). ckeller48, Here's looking at you, Kid. **

**Anyway, I read every review that I get. I'm so grateful for and humbled by overwhelming response this story has received so far. You are all very entertaining, and your passion is something else haha. Thank you for taking the time to review :). **

* * *

**Santana's POV**

I refresh my database alert page for the thousandth time, just in case something new has popped up in the last 30 seconds before I return to the other case I've been working on.

"Babe?" Puck raps his knuckles on my office door, despite the fact that he's already opened it.

"Did everyone else leave?" I ask, but I remain focused on my screen. Puck isn't exactly on my list of favorite people right now.

"Yeah." He continues to stand by the door, and I can just feel his apprehension rolling off of him in waves.

"You can head home, too, Puck. I'll see you tomorrow." I dismiss him with my hand.

I don't exactly want to be alone in a predominantly dark office, but I can't stop working. If I stop working then my mind will start focusing on things that I don't want to focus on.

"It is tomorrow." He reminds me of a little boy in this moment. His toe is digging into the carpet, and he's doing his best to break the tension between us with a weak joke. I am well aware that it is almost 3 a.m.

I don't offer him so much as a smile. I retrieve my pen from behind my ear, spinning it between each of my fingers on my left hand.

"That's impossible for starters, and secondly, you know what I meant." I know I sound cold. I also know that this is no way to talk to my best friend, but I am unhappy with him to say the least.

"I was waiting out there for a while to see if you were going to come out. Everyone else was done for the night, I thought that-" He gestures over his shoulder to the hallway.

"I have work to do," I cut him off.

"I think you can come home with me, Santana. I'm no fixer, but it seemed like everything is under control." His voice is stronger now, much firmer and sure of himself than before.

"I just need to work right now, okay?" I finally offer him eye contact, but only to drive home my point.

"Okay. I'm staying here with you until you're done then," he asserts with a shrug, his jeans wrinkling with the motion since his hands are in his pockets.

"Don't be ridiculous," I scoff, crumpling a paper of my notepad in my hand. It contains a thought that I don't remember recording, and it's not one that I want to see again.

He plops down on the couch, and I grimace at the sight of his undoubtedly dirty shoes on the leather.

"Do you have hidden TVs in here, too?"

I don't bother to answer him.

"I love our sexless marriage, you know I do, but if you're going to give me the silent treatment, can I please watch TV while you do it?"

His unintentional "watch TV" command voice activates the movement of the panel, and reveals the television on the side wall.

"Awesome. Now how do I get it to change channels to ESPN?"

The channel changes at his command, and he throws a contained fist pump into the air. I can feel a smile tugging at my lips, but I fight it.

"TV change to donkey porn!" he shouts expectantly.

I clap my hand over my mouth, glancing toward the screen in fear. Thankfully, the television does not recognize that particular direction. I muffle my relieved laugh in my hand.

"If that had worked, I probably would have vomited all over you, just so you know," I inform him.

He's smiling like the fucking Cheshire Cat. He got me to laugh, which I'm sure, was the goal all along.

"Still wouldn't be as kinky as donkey porn." He winks at me, fashioning his coat into a pillow to place behind his bald head.

I study him for a moment. Now that he's distracted me from my work, I am truly overcome by just how upset with him I am.

"I read your statement to Keith." I'm sure he knows that already, but it seems like as good of an opener into an uncomfortable discussion as any.

"Oh," he mutters, twisting on the couch so he's facing me instead of the TV.

"You had no right." I don't know what pisses me off more, that Puck felt the need to provide details of my life that Quinn wasn't around to witness, or that Puck felt that I couldn't take care of myself and tried to intimidate Quinn into going away.

"I panicked, alright? I know that the file upset you even if you wouldn't admit it. I couldn't stand to see you hurt again. It makes me insane." He sits up, his hands balling into frustrated fists.

I know what he said to Quinn, and unfortunately, I had to read Quinn's statement as well. As soon as the situation became a fixer problem, I had switched into laser focus. But, there were brief flashes where I couldn't help but wonder why she had come to the bar tonight. Was it happenstance? Was she there because she heard good things about the opening band? Was she there meeting a friend?

_No._

She told Keith that she had called Mercedes for information because she was looking to reconnect. She didn't say anything specific about me in particular.

Although Puck's statement made it seem like she had come there specifically for me, that was seemingly only an assumption on his part.

But _Jesus_, the girl has only been in the city for a few months, it makes sense that she would reach out to people that she knew. Or well, used to know. Although part of me still wondered why now? Why wait however many months before contacting anyone? A phone call would have probably been more appropriate after how she had abruptly ended her friendships, but her welcome wagon was unwarranted, in any case.

I would never tell my friends that they couldn't see her or even that I didn't _want_ them to see her. I sure as hell can't imagine how I could handle being around her on a regular basis again, however.

After my mother first gave me the file on Quinn, I had fought to keep my mind from wandering to her. After Puck revealed that Quinn was in NYC, the fight became an even more challenging one. I didn't know how to begin to sort through my feelings on the matter. So, I didn't. I just pushed whatever mess of emotions that I had away.

It wasn't as feasible of a task when she was standing directly in front of me. I couldn't bury them when they were a fucking storm cloud floating in my face.

After I chased after Rachel's rabid march through the crowd, there was a moment when I first noticed Quinn, where I was unable to remain in the present.

* * *

_We're glaring at each other in the middle of the storage room, my hands are holding her wrists because she's just given me one of her genius slaps._

_We're running through the rain after spending the night playing together in the new foam pit._

_We're slow dancing together at my junior prom, and kissing for our third, fourth, and fifth times later that night._

_We're in the backseat of my car, her hands over mine, while she tells me for the first time that she loves me._

_We're bantering in my bedroom with Kurt and Puck while Quinn does her best not to ravish me as she paints my body like Anck-Su-Namun for Halloween._

_We're having frantic sex against the fridge after Quinn fails miserably at making me edible food for my birthday._

_We're sitting on her bedroom floor as she bashfully shares her incredible artwork with me._

_We're in the storage room which first launched the repairing journey of our relationship, saying goodbye to it, in the most appropriate (or inappropriate) of fashions._

_We're squabbling like an old married couple on our drive to NYC, as she helps move me out here. She thinks I drive too fast, I think she tailgates others far too closely. In the end, it leads to a fantastic christening of the NYC apartment._

* * *

Thank god, Rachel's adamant struggling against my arms yanked me back to the present.

I don't think memories are supposed to be so vivid. Surely, after this many years, they aren't as vivid for everyone.

But that's all she is. She's a memory. I don't know her at all anymore. She just reminds me of someone that I used to know.

"You tried to call Quinn over the years too?" I clear my throat, grateful that Puck doesn't have the ability as some others do here to practically see into my head sometimes.

I hate that. I hate that Quinn now probably thinks that I was so desperate without her that I had people begging after her on my behalf.

"Yeah. Gah man, I don't know what to do sometimes. She always knew what to do," he laments, and I can see how visibly uncomfortable this is for him, as well as how much he's trying.

"If I come to you with something, or I let you see me upset, it's not because I want you to find a solution, Noah. You being there is all I've ever needed. And as moronic as you act sometimes, you've always done that for me." I leave my chair, and I crawl into his lap, wrapping my arms around his waist.

He only hesitates a second before returning my hug. He probably thinks it's too easy, and he probably had expected for it to take far longer for me to warm up to him again.

"You don't know what it's like to feel that helpless. You fix things. You know how to help people. You always have. And when it's you, you scare me, Santana. You go to this dark fucking place sometimes."

It saddens me deeply to hear how Puck views his importance, or lack thereof. I've certainly noticed over the years how much difficulty he has with responding non-physically to emotions. He'll pick someone up anywhere in the middle of the night, he'll hug, he'll hand someone a beer, but for the most part he's at a loss for what to say. It's never bothered me. His quiet presence is often what I crave when I'm having a rough time or an especially difficult day. I myself don't particularly like talking about my feelings, and he rarely presses for them.

"Your job as my best friend, and apparently never-ending roommate, is to be there. It's like football. Pretend I'm the quarterback. As my friend, you aren't a blocker. It's not your responsibility to see my hits coming, and to try to prevent them. You're my wide receiver. Your role is just to make sure you're open. You have to let me handle the rest."

"You know, I am deeper than just sex and football. I'm like an ogre. I have layers."

I glance to the side at the television screen, which, while it didn't take the donkey porn command, it eventually translated that to some sort of soft core human (thank goodness) porn.

"Right. The fact that you are watching ESPN and Cinemax at the same time right now pleads your case for you. Also, that's an onion, not an ogre, hun." I kiss his cheek, retreating from his lap and back to my desk.

* * *

After an hour or so at my desk, I carry my laptop over to Sebastian's couch. My desk chair is no longer offering me any comfort, and his cushier than normal couch is much too inviting.

I'm asleep before I even register that I've closed my eyes.

An unknown amount of time passes before I vaguely recognize that I'm in the air. For some reason, it doesn't bring me any sort of alarm. The arms around me are familiar, as is the scent that I'm currently curved into.

"Even asleep, I could still kick your ass," I mumble into the fabric of his shirt.

"I know. You remind me of that every day," he chuckles, and I hear the faint beep of the elevator.

"You act like a giant monkey sometimes. A baboon or gorilla. Whichever has the gross butt."

"Hey, I've got a great ass. Now go back to sleep, babe," he directs me, as I feel the distinct stomach sensation of an elevator shifting downward.

"I don't want to go home," I whine weakly against his chest.

"We'll grab some food first. You haven't eaten all day anyway."

"Okay."

* * *

Come Monday afternoon, I am beyond ready for my daily walk to the coffee shop.

Of course, just because I'm on the move, it doesn't mean I stop working. I make all of my non-confidential phone calls during my daily coffee run. It's a win-win. I get work done, and people don't attempt to talk to me (although strangers trying to strike up conversation here is far less commonplace than it was in Ohio).

Well, except for that one kid from last week. I think he told me his name was Tyler, shortly after he failed entirely at answering any of the questions I had for him.

I should have pieced my coffee route and Quinn's work site together before today. I take this route every day after all, and the street address was repeated around me dozens of times Saturday night.

But, I didn't.

I've been off my game lately.

It isn't until I see the small horde of children near the wall in the beginning stages of a mural, and the black SUV parked across the street that I make the connection.

She's been here for weeks, mere yards away from my daily walk path.

I cross the street as soon as it's clear, and Dean rolls down his window for me once I'm within speaking distance.

"Have the police been called on you yet? You two look like a couple of pedos over here," I snark. I can't imagine how many people have walked by and wondered what was with the random vehicle with two guys just chillin' inside of it directly across from all of those kids.

"We already briefed Ms. Fabray and Ms. Clemens. You're the rookie, not us, Lopez," Jake reminds me.

"And when do I stop being the rookie exactly? I've been doing this for almost two years now," I sigh in exasperation. I am a bit sick of the condescension, the verbal jabs, and the receiving of jobs that no one else wants to do.

"You stop being the rookie when someone newer comes along," Dean laughs, leaning back against the headrest.

"Behind you, Lopez," Jake warns me, and I twist around immediately.

Tyler is standing behind me expectantly, twisting his hat in his hands. I smile in frustration at the kid because I'm bothered by the fact that I didn't know he was there. If some teenage kid can sneak up on me then I must be really off my game.

"Hey uh…I know I bombed with you last week, but I studied up. I was thinking that maybe-" he stumbles through his proposition and I find it to be quite endearing.

He is right. Last week he couldn't answer a single question about the House of Representatives. Absently, I wonder if Quinn had witnessed the exchanges that I had with Tyler the week before. How many times has she seen me before today?

"Tyler, get back here!" A woman, who I can identify as Ms. Clemens from our work on Saturday, yells across the street to my teenage admirer.

"I thought you weren't into men because you were a power dyke, not because you were into boys," Dean teases, and if Tyler wasn't standing right next to me, I probably would have slammed the man's head into the steering wheel.

"The lady gets respect, you hear me?" Tyler approaches the window aggressively, but I halt him abruptly with my arm before he can get too close to the window.

"You obviously skipped sensitivity training, Dean. Don't call me that ever again. C'mon, Tyler let's get you across the street." I want to get the impressionable young mind away from these douchetools as soon as possible.

"I'm 15, I can walk myself," Tyler protests. He looks like someone let the air out of his tires, even though I'm pretty sure that he can't drive on his own at his age.

"But then you'd be denied the pleasure of my company," I poke him with my elbow as my effort to lighten his sudden downturn in mood. Funny enough, it was a gesture that Quinn always used to do to me for a similar purpose.

He shows me a hint of smile, but we cross the street in silence.

Ms. Clemens is there waiting for us.

"I'm sorry about that, I didn't see him walk over there," she apologizes, directing him back with the others.

"No, it's okay. It looks like you have your hands full here," I respond honestly, and she offers me a grateful expression before she follows behind Tyler, nagging him along the way.

I shake my head in amusement at Tyler's retreating grumbles, before a high-pitched squeal followed directly by a familiar husky laugh snatches my attention.

Quinn's face is splotched with paint, and she's chasing down a girl who appears much younger than Tyler. The girl barely avoids colliding into me before zig-zagging swiftly to the side. Quinn catches her then, but her eyes land on me.

Her smile fades quickly.

My heart seems to stop during mid-pulsation in my chest.

I had avoided making eye contact with her save for the moment in the bar, and our wordless exchange in the alleyway. Now I remember why.

I can't fucking think.

Her eyes always got to me the most. Her constantly shifting hazel was always my weakness.

The girl looks up at Quinn strangely, and it strikes me how similar and yet different this is from the other night. I was holding a violent Rachel, while here Quinn is holding a playful child.

"Hi." I'm not sure where the sound comes from, or how the word forms from my mouth, but I am pretty confident that I say it.

Quinn cocks her head to the side, in a motion determined to wipe some of the paint from her cheek onto her shoulder. She appears to be a tad flustered and more than a tad bewildered.

"Hi," she mimics with an arch of her eyebrow, and I almost laugh at the awkward simplicity of it all.

It's just one word. We've said thousands, maybe even millions of them to each other before. And yet, it feels significant somehow.

It feels as though after all of these years we are finally acknowledging the existence of one another again.

It's a _Hi, so you **are** real after all; I almost believed that you were a dream all along._

I had her in my office for hours, and yet I couldn't bring myself to say it before. Part of me didn't want to, sure. I didn't want to force my existence upon her when she had worked so very hard to ignore it.

But she catches me off guard in a way no other has. She catches me before I can retreat behind this impenetrable façade that I've created for myself. It's the third time she's done it in the past three days.

I think I hate her for it. _How dare she come back a stranger and still wield this power over me?_

Quinn blinks as the girl wiggles out of her grasp, and with a perplexed albeit soft smile in my direction, Quinn's on the move again.

I force myself to refrain from following her with my eyes. Instead, I adjust my headset, connect my next call, and proceed down the sidewalk and away from her.

* * *

Since yesterday, I've been trying to avoid psyching myself out over a possible repeat interaction with Quinn today.

I'm a 26-year-old woman, I should be able to exchange shorthand hellos with my ex-girlfriend without turning into a nervous teenage boy.

Actually, _fuck that_. Tyler has more game than I did yesterday.

Not that I want to have game with Quinn, but it would be nice to be able to exchange pleasantries with her without seeming damaged.

It's not even that I _want_ to exchange pleasantries with her necessarily; it's more like I'm determined to prove to myself that I _can_.

I want to prove to myself that I'm not still stuck in high school.

Many of my friends are married and have started families already, and I, well I am _not_ still looking for the feeling that I had at 18. I'm _not_.

Especially when the girl who made me feel that way fell into relationships with other women as soon as she overcame the one obstacle that led to our demise.

It's with that thought that I deliberately take the same route that I always have to my coffee place of choice, even though I know that I'll probably see Quinn.

Tyler sees me coming from a mile away this time (no, not literally) and comes jogging up to do his quickly-becoming-habitual backwards walk in front of me.

I disconnect my call with an affectionate smile.

"Hit me," he invites with a cocky grin.

I instantly decide that I'll give him a second chance. Some people definitely deserve second chances.

"How many members are in the House of Representative?" I launch.

"435," he answers correctly, and beckons with his fingers for me to keep going.

"Nice. First female Speaker of the House?"

"Nancy Pelosi," he answers confidently, glancing behind him to ensure that he's not going to trip over any obstacles.

"Excellent. How many votes are needed to pass a bill in the House?" He's genuinely impressing me right now.

I haven't smiled this much in days.

"218, unless one of the dudes leaves or dies or something." He shrugs.

"Dudes or ladies," I correct, obviously amused.

"First former President to serve as a Representative?" If he can answer this one, he'll have earned more than a cheek kiss. As to what that reward will be exactly? I'm not sure, but I'm sure as hell not kissing him on the mouth.

"Madison?" His confidence falters. For good reason.

"Nope. Beep. Wrong answer. It was Quincy Adams. Madison was the first former Representative to serve as President."

"That question was too hard!" he objects, and I stop walking. He stumbles briefly before he finds his footing to halt his backwards walk as well.

"The name is Santana," I remark with a smile, leaning down to press my lips lightly to his flushed cheek.

He grins so widely that I can practically see his cavities.

"Can I show you my stuff?" he asks, gesturing to the wall, taking on the form of a rooster that is about to crow. His chest is puffed out farther than usual.

"Sure," I nod, and he seems to hesitate, glancing down at my hand as if he means to take it, before making his best swagger attempt for his approach to the wall.

It doesn't take me long at all to find Quinn. It never has. She's always been the easiest for me to spot in a crowded room, field, or hallway.

Quinn is guiding a younger girl's hand against the wall, a different girl than the day before, and her back is turned to the two of us.

Tyler passionately directs me to the part of the mural that he's worked on so far, and although he's adorable, and I find something so very special in what this project has probably done for him, I can't help but glance over at Quinn.

He says my name, with slight apprehension, almost as if he's afraid of mispronouncing it or if his use of it will scare me away. He's trying to call my attention back to him.

When that doesn't work, Tyler, the apparently observant little shit that he is, calls me out.

"Oh that's Miss F. She's the one who taught me how to do this stuff. She wasn't into _all of this_, but she's dope," he explains, gesturing to his own, still developing, body.

"Oh is she?"

"Yeah. You'd dig her," he nods. _God_, he has no idea.

"Hey Miss F., I got somebody for you to meet!" He shouts over, and I'm grateful that when I blush, it's not readily apparent.

"You know I prefer Quinn, Tyler!" Quinn reminds as she continues to guide the hand of the girl that she is working with.

Tyler returns to rambling on in excitement about his paint work, and I do my very best to focus on him. All of my efforts go to shit, however, when my senses are suddenly, entirely and completely overwhelmed by vanilla and citrus. _My fucking god, she still smells the same._

"Oh hey, Miss F., this is Santana." He says my name so carefully that it is almost enough to distract me from the woman in front of me. _Except, not really, not even a little bit, not even at all._

She extends her hand.

"It's lovely to meet you, I'm Quinn Fabray." I give her what I can only imagine is an expression laced with shock and bemusement.

It's insane how incredibly attracted to her I am after all these years. Her voice alone does unspeakable things to me between my thighs.

I reach for the extension of her hand, focusing far too long on the proper exacting of pressure. The importance of an effective handshake has been pounded into me. It gives me something to focus on aside from the hazel.

Her hand feels colder than I expected, and yet, softer than I remembered. She shakes my hand up and down perhaps one or two too many times than tradition normally calls for before she drops it completely.

She examines me expectantly. It must be my turn to speak.

"Santana Lopez. It's a pleasure to meet you too," I manage, although for some reason I wish we were still shaking hands.

"Miss F. is from Cali, but she isn't a surfer. We thought she be lying when she said that, but she said New Yorkers like us always be assuming those things, ya know?" Tyler elaborates.

I can't help but laugh, and I try to look at him as much as possible rather than Quinn but it is so damn hard. Imagining Quinn trying to surf is just too priceless.

"I'm not a native New Yorker, Ty. I'm from Ohio, actually," I negate his assumption.

"What like with the potatoes?" he questions, clearly he had thought that I was a native New Yorker just like himself. I'm always flattered when people think that. As someone who grew up in the middle of nowhere U.S.A., it's nice to know that people think I fit here.

I laugh. "No, that's Idaho."

"Quinn!" comes a shout from the other end of the wall.

She regards me with something that I can only pin down as regret. I could probably get a far better read, if her eyes weren't so damn hypnotizing.

Quinn tears her gaze from mine, and I bid Tyler goodbye immediately. I hurry on with my day before I can make a bigger fool of myself than I already have.

* * *

Today, I take a different route to my coffee shop.

I feel such a strong surge of gratitude for Tyler and his distractions. Now that I'm without them, I'm left to listen to this man babble on about his deteriorating assets due the voter fraud scandal that he is associated with.

Any effort I make to mentally record what the man has to tell me, just turns to hazel. _Sweet, intoxicating hazel._

_Fuck_, I don't know what it is. I won't admit that I'm stuck, because I'm _not_. That's not what this is, but I also know that I feel nowhere near as certain or together as I usually do when I'm around her.

It's like my mind is a radio that suddenly experiences far too much traffic. It's buzzing, and unclear, and there are too many voices and noises coming from it at once. I can't focus like I usually can. I'm not this weapon, this asset, that I have been trained to be.

I'm not a weapon, I'm not an asset, period. I no longer know who or what I am when I'm in her presence. It's unnatural, and it's downright terrifying.

So yeah, yesterday, I took the route that I knew would lead to her with the intent of proving myself, but in truth I realized just how much I need to avoid her.

She's a wrench thrown into everything I've built.

I'm good at what I do. No, actually, I'm great at it. I'm a natural, and I know that's part of why the others give me such a hard time.

Normally, I make the earth move. I shift the ground. I manipulate circumstances and situations.

I can't stand that she makes the earth move beneath me instead.

It makes me feel unstable, and out of control.

I know it's all in my head, because we've barely interacted at all, but I also know that until I figure my shit out, I'll continue to take a different route every afternoon.

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

Monday she says "Hi" to me.

Tuesday she adorably plays into the introduction game that we're involved in.

I had such high hopes for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, but damn it, I haven't caught a single glimpse of her since Tuesday.

I feel so very stupid for actually believing that we were making some sort of progress. I was an idiot.

It's more than that though, I swear. I swear to all that is good that I saw something in her eyes on Monday that screamed to me, screamed to me that circumstances had changed, dreams had changed, but that she was still that person. _My person._

It's completely odd and inexplicable to me, how I can find such solace, comfort, and intrigue in fleeting moments with her, while there are other times where she has seemed like nothing more than a beautiful stranger.

But, maybe it's pathetic, maybe it is incorrigible, but I wish for her to walk by every day like she did before I made my presence in NYC known. And when she doesn't, I feel just a little more hopeless than I did the day before.

It's ridiculous. I'm young and really quite successful. I have friends, and I've had love, and yet, she impacts me far more than she ever should.

I despise myself for how devastated I feel when she doesn't walk by for the third day in a row on Friday. With that in mind, as soon as I get home, I reach inside of my purse and I find the paper that I had stuffed in there from Kurt the weekend before.

I dial the number on the paper without further thought.

"Kurt Hummel," he answers formally.

"Hi, Kurt, this is Quinn," I respond.

"I didn't think you were going to call!" he exclaims in pure excitement.

"I didn't think I was either…Saturday was…" I take a deep breath. It was overwhelming and hardly encouraging at all.

"Terrible I know. You would have thought we were all 16 again," he finishes.

I have friends here. Friends in the art world, friends who I've met through work, friends who I made instant connections with at the grocery store.

But, there is something special about talking to someone who knew me before I became the woman I am now. Someone who knew me as the girl often clad in a red and white cheerleading outfit. Someone who knew me as the girl constantly striving for her parents' approval. Someone who knew me as the girl at the top of the popularity pyramid who somehow befriended all of the Glee club outcasts.

My friends can appreciate who I am now, but really, they can never understand how far I've come. Except for Mercedes, of course.

While I don't often, if ever, long to be the girl I once was, I do miss that girl's friendships at times. I miss that feeling of finding my first real home amongst them, and amongst Santana.

She's not my only motivation for calling Kurt, but I would be lying to myself if I were to claim that she isn't a dominant factor. I don't know if I'm chasing after my past or if she could have a real place in my present, but that_ fucking_ pull compels me to find out. Or at least to try.

I'm not happy with how she treated me on Saturday, I'm not. But unlike her, I had time to prepare myself for seeing her (all the good it did when I couldn't find suitable words upon seeing her). And, you know, she may have gone out of her way to ignore me, but she also went out of her way to help and protect me as well.

I know that she is picking up the tab for the portion of the "fixing" that was for my benefit. I know that she lectured Puck and Rachel for what they did. I know that she made sure that I had ice for my cheek. I know that while she may or may not have understood that she would see me on Monday, she deliberately crossed my path on Tuesday.

I know that she's even more of a force than she was in high school. I know that I still find her to be fascinating, maybe more so now than I ever did. I know that her interactions with Tyler are pretty demonstrative that she hasn't turned into a complete hardass. I know that the unyielding loyalty of her friends show what an amazing friend she has continued to be. I know that I felt more during her one syllable greeting to me than I have felt in a very long time.

It's enough. It's enough to make me want to know more.

Kurt chooses to fill in the silence that I've created with my thoughts.

"Do you want to get coffee on Sunday? We could actually catch up without all the screaming accusations and diva antics," Kurt invites before I find anything else to say.

"I would love that," I accept with genuine gratitude. I could definitely use another Kurt Hummel hug.


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter VI**

**A/N: Flashbacks are in italics, and my beta, ckeller48, remains fabulous.**

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

When I arrive at the coffee shop, Kurt is already there. He's seated in a funky patterned chair, peering over what appears to be an antique chess set. It's a quaint place, sparsely spotted with well-dressed, eccentric people. Kurt fits right in. I imagine bookstores and grocery stores that would suit him just as well. It's a reason why I've fallen in love with New York since moving here. There are places for everyone. For all kinds, and all walks of life.

I haven't found all of my places yet, but I have certainly enjoyed the search so far. I would wager a guess that Kurt has found all of his.

Even partially slouched over a chessboard, I can tell that Kurt sits straighter and prouder than ever before. He made his "coming out" such an ordeal, which at the time I found very entertaining since everyone already knew. After all of these years, he's still one of the most unique individuals that I have ever had the pleasure of knowing. We were never particularly close, but I always admired him for having the courage to be so different. I'm happy to see that it is one thing that hasn't changed.

He is drinking out of an actual coffee cup. Not cardboard, or plastic, but real china. He sets it down promptly upon seeing me, kissing each of my cheeks unceremoniously before pulling me into a hug.

While I never considered Kurt to be a best friend, we became family along with everyone else in those years spent in the choir room. Hugging him is much like coming home.

"For you." He hands me a full mug as soon as he releases me from the hug.

"Thank you." I find that the warmth under my hands serves to soothe my nerves, but I'm rather puzzled by the gesture.

"Weren't you worried that it would be cold before I got here?" I inquire with the intention of sounding curious rather than ungrateful.

"The Quinn Fabray I remember was always on time." He smiles, and I take the seat on the opposite side of the chessboard.

He's watching me expectantly, and I realize that he's waiting for me to take a sip. I'm baffled the instant I do so.

"Raspberry white-" I begin incredulously. It's my favorite. It has been since I first discovered it at age fifteen.

"White chocolate mocha, yes. Now that, that I cannot credit _my_ memory for," he finishes.

"I didn't realize that you were on the all-knowing Lopez team." I narrow my eyes at him.

He laughs, and waves his hand while simultaneously making the same negative motion with his head.

"Oh, definitely not. I don't have the stomach nor do I have the skill set for that sort of work. I'm in fashion. I actually never left ."

"Still an intern?" If I remember right, he was able to find an internship shortly after he was notified that he wasn't admitted to NYADA.

"No, I'm an assistant to one of the creative directors. One day I'll be in the top spot." He crosses his fingers to punctuate.

"I'm sure you will." And I am sure. Kurt has always had a flair for fashion, and I know that he's a hard working person.

"And you, didn't anyone tell you the rules?" he poses, gathering his own cup back into his hands.

"What do you mean?"

"Girls like you are supposed to peak in high school. And yet here you are, more beautiful than the day you won Prom Queen. You have your own business, you're helping rejuvenate the streets of New York, and you're somehow making that shapeless dress work for you. It's not right."

"Thanks…" I glance off to the side, flipping my hand at his backhanded compliment. I couldn't really care less about what Kurt thinks about my clothes. I wear them for me, not for a magazine spread.

_Did any of the "fixers" mention my business in front of Kurt?_ I can't recall. That was a strange and stressful night, and my attention was admittedly focused on Santana the majority of the time.

"How much small talk do you think is appropriate before we get to the meat of it all?" He sits back in his chair, crossing his legs at the thigh. If 16-year-old Santana were here, I am positive that she would make some sort of gay joke out of that meat comment.

"I think we're there. Is there something in particular you want to discuss?" I swallow, crossing my own legs at the ankle.

"Would you believe me if I told you that I was far more interested in your questions than I am your answers?"

He's being rather mysterious, and it's beginning to make me nervous.

"I'd be confused. I'm not sure why you're being this friendly with me, if I'm to be honest. I didn't expect Rachel and Puck to do what they did, but I also didn't expect you to be like _this_, and especially not Sadie." I admit.

"I was tortured in high school, Quinn. You weren't around for most of it, but I was threatened, and tormented. At times, I feared for my life. And much of it happened before I even revealed myself as a fabulous gay man. Then glee club happened, and for a while nothing changed. I came out, and things became even worse for me." He pauses, gesturing at me with both hands, despite the cup he's holding.

I can remember flashes of how bad it was for Kurt in high school. He was thrown into dumpsters and against lockers. It's definitely understandable that he was scared.

"Finn only defended me when it was convenient for him, and I'm pretty sure that Puck didn't know my name until senior year. Santana called me clever names that the whole school eventually caught onto. Yes, she eventually became my biggest and most intimidating defender, but at first she was just a bully. A bully that made life more miserable with the slightest catch phrase."

I want to hug him. Santana was a bitch for the first couple years of high school. I hate that Kurt was one of her targets. I know that she made fun of him for being different, because of her own issues, but it doesn't excuse the things she did.

"But you, you had everything to lose. You with your perfect image, and your perfect grades, and your perfect family, and your perfect place at the peak of the social ladder. And yet, you defended me at every opportunity. You told them to shut up. You never called me Richard Simmons or the Gay Winklevii Twin. We weren't even that close and yet you put your reputation and status on the line. You couldn't defend yourself and who you were, but you found the courage to defend me. I've always loved you for that."

I can't really remember defending Kurt before joining the glee club. I do remember yelling at some of the jocks in the hallway for what they would say or do to Kurt, however, but that wasn't until after I joined glee. Santana eventually did the same to the jocks, or worse. A smile tempts my lips when I think back to the day when Rachel and Kurt were almost slushied, and Santana covered the two offending baseball players in the slush intended for our friends.

Lost in my thoughts, I nearly miss it when Kurt mentions me defending myself.

"What do you mean who I am?"

"You are a woman who loves women," he says simply as if it isn't something that I had labored for years to become comfortable saying in public.

"How do you know that? Did Santana tell you?" I lean forward, my voice hushed out of habit. I can't see Santana outing me to our former friends, but I also can't imagine how else he would know.

Looking back to Saturday, however, the exchange between Rachel, Kurt and I was rather odd.

_Did Rachel know then? Did everyone?_

"Oh goodness no. Santana is more tightly lipped than Ms. Pillsbury's legs ever were."

More mystery. I'm already a little tired of it. I feel like everyone is halfway through a novel that I haven't even begun to read yet. He notices my irritation, and takes it upon himself to continue.

"I used to think it was funny when people called you the Ice Queen, because when it came to Santana, at least to me, your heart was on your sleeve. Blaine and I used to jokingly mimic the faces you two would make at each other." He grins at the memory, before imitating the dopiest look I've ever seen the man make. My cheeks grow warm with embarrassment.

Mercedes had told me on multiple occasions to "check my face" when I would look at Santana since I didn't want people to find out about us._ I tried. I really did._

"Did everyone know?" I set my cup down on the side table in frustration. I can't believe I spent so much time and energy worrying about people finding out what they already knew. No one went running to my father. I could have trusted them. It's also embarrassing to know how obvious my feelings for Santana were.

"I don't know how they couldn't. I didn't know for sure that you two were together, but you looked at her as though she were the answer to every question you ever had," Kurt ends seriously.

I did find many of my answers within her. I loved her more than I've ever loved anyone, and she definitely changed my life.

"That's poetic of you," I respond as if I don't see the truth in it, even though I completely do.

"I'm a romantic," he shrugs, and peers up at me from his cup with an eager expression.

_Oh, he wants me to talk about her._

I'm not sure what he wants me to say. Is he looking for an admission that we were a couple? Or is he looking for an admission of my feelings?

"We were together, and I loved her very much." I give him both. He nods as if I have pleased him.

It's an odd thing to hear in my own voice. I avoided talking about Santana to Mercedes, and cut everyone else who would know Santana out of my life. I didn't even discuss her with my exes, because I was afraid. I was afraid that they would know that what I felt for them was not the same as what I felt for her. I was afraid that they would read into my expressions or my tones and know that I never quite got over my high school girlfriend. I was afraid that they would leave because of it, just like she did.

"Where did it go wrong?" he questions softly.

"Somewhere before the start, I suppose."

* * *

_My father is giving me a tour of his office building, as if I haven't been here on a hundred different occasions. We're popping into practically every office basically with the intention of my father showing me off._

_We enter one office to find three men who are chatting away until they notice my father's presence. The young man who is leaning against another employee's desk straightens immediately. I've seen him before. He's been over to our house, I think. I hope dad doesn't expect me to remember his name._

_"Gentlemen, allow me to introduce my beautiful daughter, Quinn. She will be graduating at the top of her class from Yale in the spring. Soon enough she will be working here with us."_

_I shake hands with the two unfamiliars before my dad offers the third a special introduction._

_"Quinn, you remember Marcus, don't you? He's been a valuable asset to our team here, and he has quite the golf swing."_

_"You flatter me, Mr. Fabray." Marcus brown-noses. It's not attractive._

_"It's Russell, son. Quinn here is in town for her school vacation, and she's been itching for a study break."_

_I know where this is going. In fact, I'm starting to recall the times I've met Marcus before. He's a couple years older than me, and his parents are old friends of my father's. This is clearly one of my father's set ups._

_"I don't have studying to do. That's why it's a vacation," I correct, and my father shoots me a disfavoring look._

_"It's been a few decades for me, Quinnie. Give your old man a break." He slings his arm around my shoulder and I give him a half-hearted smile in return._

_"Marcus and his family will be coming on our ski trip next week, you two will have time to really get to know one another. Wasn't there a movie you wanted to see before then?" He's not being subtle. Not even a little bit._

_"No, Dad. I don't even know what's out." I don't want to embarrass him, but I also don't want this guy to think I'm interested._

_"Come now, Quinnie. You're going to make Marcus here think that you're a regular old bump on a log."_

_"I could choose the movie," Marcus offers, and I feel instantly bad for him. I wonder how many times the man has been badgered by my father about his "perfect daughter"._

_"You could. That sounds like a great idea. Come up to my office to grab Quinn's number before you leave for the day." My father instructs. I feel like cattle. It's like a transaction is happening in front of me, and although it's about me, I have no say in it._

_"Yes sir. It would be my pleasure." Marcus agrees, and my dad excuses us from the room._

_I exhale as soon as we leave the office, frowning at the floor of the elevator once we enter it. Like a properly behaved girl, I wait until we're back in my dad's office and the door is closed before I address him._

_I take a deep breath, gathering my courage as I do so. He's adjusting the blinds by the time I am able to force the words from my mouth._

_"I don't want to go out with him," I assert._

_"What did you say?" He doesn't turn away from the blinds. I'm not sure if he truly didn't hear me or if he doesn't understand._

_"I won't be going on a date with Marcus." My voice trembles slightly, but I don't think it's significant enough for him to notice._

_He definitely hears me this time. The anger is evident on his features from the second he turns around to face me._

_"He's a good man from a good family. His father is on the Board, and he's been one of my greatest campaign contributors. You will let that boy take you out," he demands._

_I know what's coming. I know what I have to do. I know it's the right thing to do, but it doesn't make this any less difficult or any less scary._

_"No," I defy._

_His fists ball, and clench, driving white streaks through his skin. Unlike Santana's father, mine has never laid a hand on me that wasn't a spanking. His anger has always frightened me, in any case, and up until now, I have done whatever I can to avoid it._

_"I allowed you to take on that ridiculous art major, and this disobedience is how you expect to repay me?" He grabs forcefully at his tie, tugging the knot away from his neck._

_By my sophomore year of college, I knew that business wasn't for me. I probably knew it sooner but I had worked almost as hard as my father did to convince myself that a business major was what I wanted. My passion was and is for art. I have been standing in the way of my own happiness for too long. For awhile, I thought I could have it both ways. I had begged my father to let me take on the art major. I thought that maybe I could make him happy and myself happy as well._

_He wasn't pleased with it, and he told me that if the grades in my business courses suffered that I would have to drop the double major. I was so grateful to him for allowing me to take on the other major that it was almost sick. He financially supports me and my education, but only for the choices he agrees with. Up until now, I have almost entirely made choices that he would agree with._

_When I don't respond to him, he lowers his tone to continue._

_"You're 22 years old, Quinnie. It's time for you to take dating seriously. You haven't brought anyone home since that braided haired hippie boy who took you to prom."_

_I thought he had liked Joe. Joe came from a good Christian family. I guess I didn't think about what my father would think of the his hair._

_This isn't the first time my dad has brought up the lack of men in my life. I tried a few dates with men after Santana and I broke up, but I could barely bring myself to kiss them. It just felt so disingenuous. It felt wrong, and I decided that I was done using men to please my father or to elevate my social status. That was high school Quinn and I'm not that girl anymore._

_I'm not ready to tell my father that I think I'm gay. I'm just not there yet, but I do have to tell him something else._

_"I've applied to grad schools, daddy." It probably seems to him like such a random change of topic._

_"No no no. You won't need your masters here. If you still want to go then we can discuss it in a few years, but by then you will probably be more worried about my grandchildren than you are about getting an education that you don't need." He dismisses me like the child that I know he believes me to be, and yet, he's talks about my future children. I don't know how he can see me as this innocent child in desperate need of his guidance, and as a woman at the same time._

_He actually went over the maternity leave benefits at his company during the earlier tour. Maybe others would think that is sweet for such a traditional man's man to think about, but it wasn't. He didn't go over it to discuss how "good" his company is to female employees. He went over it as yet another way of pushing his plan for my future._

_"Not for business. For art," I clarify, and I swear that his eyeballs are close to bulging out of his head._

_"Art is a hobby! People like us do not make careers out of hobbies." He slams the flat of his palm down on his desk._

_I'm glad my mom isn't here. She'd be trying to lead me out of the room with whispers of how I needed to just do as my father says._

_I've told him how much I love art before. He's always being very against the idea of it being anything more than a side activity. I, too, had believed for years that it could be nothing more than a hobby. I am done living other people's truths however._

_"Maybe we aren't as similar as you think," I suggest, and he starts pointing at me repeatedly, a shake to his tense hand._

_"You are my blood. You are a Fabray. You will start acting like it. You will do as I say."_

_He offers no other choice, and I internally battle the voice in my head claiming that he's right. I hate this. I hate disappointing him. I hate making him angry. I hate that he may leave my life, and that he'll take my mother with him. Russell Fabray does not suffer defiance._

_"That is what I've been doing my entire life, because of **you**. I've been acting. But I'm tired, daddy. I'm exhausted. And now you want to cast someone to play the part of my husband. You want the son that mom was never able to give you. But I'm not really this person who you've done everything to create!" I can feel the moisture building beneath my eyelids, my voice is raised and strained with emotion. I don't quite know if it's anger or fear or pain that's causing me to yell at my father, but I don't think I've ever spoken to him like this before._

_"Stop this. You will respect me." Some of his anger has dissipated. I think it's because he is caught off guard by my display of emotion._

_"I have respected your every wish, and where am I now?" I throw up my hands._

_"You are a semester away from graduating from one of the leading institutions in the country."_

_It sounds great when you say it like that._

_"The university you wanted me to go to. With the major you wanted me to have. Making the sort of friends you wanted me to make. And now I'm here, listening to you tell me how the rest of my life is going to play out and I don't know whether I want to cry or scream more." There are at least two tears running down my cheeks, and my father seems frozen in place on the other side of the room._

_"This is my place of work. You will do no such thing." I think he's referring to the screaming, although he'd probably be equally offended if his staff discovered a sobbing girl in his office. It's always been about image for him._

_"I love you, daddy, and I hope that one day you can learn to love me for who I am rather than who you want me to be, because I'm done playing this part." I wipe my tears with my index finger, and I brace myself for his reaction._

_"I will not support you if you defy me." He says the words that I knew he would say as soon as I decided to have this conversation with him. How predictable._

_"I know," I sigh, smoothing my dress down with my hands. _

_I fetch my purse from his coat hanger, and he makes no moves to stop my departure. He's taken his seat, and he's deliberately looking down at his desk rather than me._

_He's decided that our conversation is over. He's very much used to getting things his way. He probably thinks that this is just a silly girl's whim, and that I'll come to my senses._

_He's wrong._

_I should just leave, but I'm still angry. I'm angry about all the time I've wasted, and I'm angry that he won't tell me that he loves me regardless of the career I choose. It's a stupid reason not to love someone._

_"Oh, and dad?" He glances up from his desk, and I can tell from his expression that he thinks that I've already changed my mind._

_He's wrong again._

_"I voted straight ticket Democrat in the last election," I reveal, before immediately opening the door to exit his office._

* * *

My father didn't cut me off financially right away. We exchanged many heated phone calls during my last semester of school. For once, I didn't spend any part of my summer at home. I lived out my lease until July before I moved myself out to California. It wasn't until two weeks before I left that he severed everything. It was his last ditch effort to change my mind, I'm sure.

Kurt's voice brings me back from my thoughts.

"Before the start? It's a good thing I didn't make other plans for the day then." He's charming. Sometimes I think I forgot that about him. It's easy to remember the flamboyance and how adorable he was with Blaine. But his charm and poise don't usually come to mind.

"How are you at chess?" he proposes, and I take a drink before responding.

"How are you at losing?" I arch a cocky eyebrow in his direction. I happen to be very good at chess. It was my father's favorite game, second to golf, of course.

After discovering the location of the pieces in the box under the table, we both begin to set up the game.

"Soo…is Santana the reason why you disappeared on everyone?" We're still lining up our pieces when Kurt dives back into the conversation.

"Yes."

* * *

_"Quinn? Quinn? Are you there?" Mercedes calls to me through the phone speaker._

_ It feels like my chest is caving in. I can't breathe, no matter how many times I try to suck in air. My heart rate feels impossibly fast._

_I don't know how I was able to find her name in my phone when my thoughts are so loud and repetitive._

_SHE LEFT._

_SHE LEFT._

_SHE'S GONE._

_I'M ALONE._

_SHE SAID SHE'D NEVER LEAVE._

_I had something like this happen to me twice before. Once, right after I found out I was pregnant. And the second time at Junior Prom when I realized that something terrible had happened to Santana. I was far more mobile the second time than the first, but even the first time is not quite the same as this. My vision is blurrier, and the chills running through me feel like a million tiny needles on every millimeter of my skin._

_My sobs are silent._

_My entire world feels as though it is spinning out of control. I'm literally dizzy._

_There's no logic._

_There's no sense._

_It's just pain, and panic, and a breath that I can't seem to catch._

_"Quinn, baby girl, I know that you're there. What's going on? Are you crying? Is someone hurting you?" She sounds frantic. If I was in any other state I would be doing whatever I could to assuage her. _

_"I can't-" It comes out as a cough._

_"I can't-" I try again._

_My whole body heaves and falls against the carpet of my dorm room._

_"You can't what, honey?"_

_I'm sure she can hear my wheezing attempts at inhaling and my desperate gasps._

_"Try a yes or a no. Are you alone?"_

_"Yeah." Another cough, but I think it's a coherent enough answer._

_"Is this like what happened to you after you peed on that stick?" Mercedes was my phone call on that day as well. I didn't know who else to go to when I found out I was pregnant. Finn was an idiot, and my Cheerio friends would have told everyone. My parents were out of the question._

_Mercedes found me that day on my bathroom floor in a fetal position much similar to the one I am in now._

_"Yes." _

_People severely underrate how smart this woman is._

_"Okay, we are going to breathe together. Focus on my voice. It'll be like booty camp we'll make counts, only instead of moves it'll be breaths okay? In for four and out for four. You can do it, baby girl. You can do anything," she assures me, and her voice is now calm and soothing rather than the frantic sputtering she was doing earlier._

_"Breathe in, one, two three, four," she guides._

_It's a battle. It's by no means an immediate solution. She continually has to remind me, and to refocus me. But eventually I calm._

_I'm still in pain, and I feel more drained than I probably have ever felt, but I don't feel like I'm dying anymore._

_"Are you able to talk about what happened?" Mercedes gently asks, as I endeavor to empty ice from my mini fridge into a glass._

_My whole body aches and stings._

_"Santana broke up with me." I sound like a whispering frog. My voice is even hoarser than its usual huskiness._

_"Now I know that woman did not break up with my number one girl. What was she thinking?" Of course she goes to the sassy place._

_I sigh. It's all I can do. Thankfully, I've made it to my bed. Mercedes waits patiently for my response. She's not exactly known for her patience, but when it comes to being a good friend, she's the best I could ever ask for._

_"I told her that I wasn't sure if I could ever be open about us, and she ended it." I'm sure I would be crying if I hadn't already spent an unknown amount of hours doing so._

_"People don't know about us, and now I don't know what I'll say to them. How am I supposed to explain why I can't be around her? It was hard enough before we were together to be around her and not be with her, but now I've had her. I don't know what I'll do," I confess._

_It's all so complicated. I can't be a bystander to her life again. But at the same time, I won't be able to explain why I can't be around her or why I'd rather not talk about her or hear about her life._

_Santana and our friends are a packaged deal. I have no idea how I'm going to be able to navigate my friendships after this._

_"You need to do what you need to do for you," Mercedes assures me._

_"What if what I need is to separate myself?"_

_"Then you do it. You gotta be healthy."_

_"But they're my friends…" I clench my eyes, clutching at my stomach as I do so._

_Santana's devastated face haunts me. Now that my mind isn't filled with flashes of panicked words and images, her face is what remains._

_The pain in her teary brown eyes is my doing. I've never seen her like that before. Not even when she found me waiting for her in the choir room after her father disowned her. It wasn't like this._

_Earlier, when she was standing in my dorm room, it was mostly my fear of losing her that propelled me forward to fight for her to stay._

_It's as if my brain is reminding me of what I was too overwhelmed by my own emotions to see._

_I'm consumed by her pain._

_The thought of hurting my friends as well is too much to handle._

_"I know. But they love you and they care about you. If one of them needed this you would give it to them," Mercedes soothes. _

_"I'll help you. We'll take care of it." She takes my silence as an affirmative response._

_It might as well be. It hurts, but it is what I have to do._

* * *

"Do you remember the summer before senior year?" I clear my throat, unsure of how to properly explain my actions. They were necessary for me, but that doesn't mean I know how to convey how mandatory they were to others.

"Vaguely, sure," he shrugs.

"I didn't come around everyone as much that summer. Santana and I had this awful argument when we were at that hotel for Nationals, and like the mature adults we were, we stopped speaking to each other. That summer was almost unbearable for me. I realized what a terrifyingly significant role Santana played in my life. I withdrew to protect myself. We went three years before that, from eighth grade to junior year without being friends. I had spent too much time watching Santana's life happen without being a part of it. I knew what that pain felt like."

He glances up at me while I speak, and hesitates before taking my pawn with his knight. Given our topic of conversation, he seems apologetic about it. I try to give him a reassuring smile before I go on.

"So when she broke up with me, I literally had a panic attack. I knew I couldn't go through it again, and I knew that it was going to be infinitely worse because I wouldn't be mourning a complicated and confusing friendship. I'd be mourning this love that I had finally been able to convince myself that I wasn't going to lose." I bite down on my lower lip, and Kurt straightens in his seat.

"Wow, I bet you didn't expect to be playing Oprah today," I joke, and Kurt tilts forward to give a comforting squeeze to the hand that I have resting on my knee.

"I had my fingers crossed for it. Honestly, I didn't expect for you to be so open. I don't remember you ever saying this much."

"Somewhere along the line, I learned that if I carefully tailor myself and my actions to the specific expectations of each and every person than I am never myself. Never completely," I explain.

"I'm sure Rachel would have thought twice about that slap if she knew she was hitting Gandhi," he murmurs playfully.

"Oh shut up. I've just worked really hard," I laugh softly, before moving my rook into position.

"To think, everyone saw you as walking perfection before."

"It's how I wanted them to see me, but I know now that perfect is highly overrated." I brush a strand of hair behind my ear.

"May I ask you something Kurt?" I purse my lips as he takes yet another one of my pawns.

"It's what I'm here for," he states simply.

"Why are you not in the least bit upset with me?"

"For what? Months after everyone else already knew, I think I tried to send you a picture of this skirt that we had at Vogue that I thought would suit you, and when it didn't go through, that was my first indication that something had happened. We were friends, Quinn, but I didn't have you in my day to day life to miss. Was I hurt when I realized that you unilaterally decided that we weren't going to be friends anymore? Yes. Although I suppose I assumed that you must have had a good reason for it. Once I moved in with Rachel, I really started to put the pieces together. Her and Santana were suddenly suspiciously close, and Santana had to leave the room on occasion to deal with distress calls from Brittany. From what I could see, besides Santana, Brittany took it the hardest. I can imagine it was a difficult thing for her to understand, when Santana couldn't give her the explanation for it. I wished I knew what was going on, but I wasn't as hurt by it as some of the others."

Brittany is the person that I felt the worst about. I knew she wouldn't understand. How could she? I never wanted to leave her behind. I loved her. She was also the last person in the friend group that I wanted to know about my relationship with Santana. She would have been so hurt if she knew that we were together. I was the person that she confided in the most when it came to her feelings for Santana. I was sure that she would have felt completely betrayed.

"Where is Brittany?"

"I think she's in Vegas, but she'll be back in New York next week. Do you want me to talk to her for you?" Kurt offers.

"Maybe. Maybe you could ask her if it would be okay if you gave me her phone number? I would like to explain everything myself." It's not going to be an easy conversation. I know that. I would rather she find out about everything from me than from everyone else, however. After all these years, I still feel like I owe her that.

The bell for the door clangs, stealing my attention. Sadie rushes in, shaking out her partially wet hair, huffing and puffing as she wipes her flats on the front rug. Apparently she didn't dress for the rain.

I glance over at Kurt in question. _Did he invite her?_

Before I can vocalize the inquiry, Sadie's voice cuts through the shop.

"Holy hipster town. What kind of pretentious world of the queer did I just walk into?"

She approaches us, and yanks a chair over from an empty table before she sits down.

"You're late," Kurt chides.

"I slept in." She shrugs a shoulder before pulling her coat off to drape over the chair.

"It's 3 p.m," Kurt snorts derisively.

"Okay. I slept in and then I had a few athletic rounds of monkey sex. Would you like to know which positions we were in, fancy pants? I could draw you up some detailed pictures," she huffs.

"No thank you."

"Hello, Fabray," she greets me and I realize that I have yet to ask what the hell she's doing here.

"Wh-" I start, but Kurt predicts my question.

"I'm sorry that I didn't tell you that I invited Miss TMI here. I know you two haven't had the best history." It's an apology, but not an explanation.

And he's right, we haven't. In fact, Sadie and I almost got into a physical fight years ago. We couldn't stand one another.

"I think you called me a gingervitis orangutan once. I've had some creative insults thrown my way, but that one was A+." She throws a thumbs up in my direction with a click of her mouth.

"Not exactly my classiest moment," I admit.

"I wish I could say we've all grown beyond feisty Prom-style cat fights, but then there's Rachel fucking Berry..." Sadie rolls her eyes, leaning back in her chair.

"I think she forgets that her life isn't actually taking place on a stage sometimes," Kurt chimes in before refocusing on his next chess move.

"She must. It's the only reasonable explanation. Anyway, if it's alright with you, Fabgay, I'd like to leave our past where it belongs in some teenage rom-com where for some reason the impossibly hot redhead doesn't end up with the girl in the end."

Now Sadie, I already know that she knows about my relationship with Santana. She told Santana that she knew about us while we were in high school. I was not happy, to say the least.

But, we aren't teenagers anymore, and while she seems just as brash if not worse than she was years ago, she has been one of the friendliest people to me so far.

"You're going to scare her away." Kurt reproaches.

"She's not some skittish rodent," Sadie contends.

"I think I can do that. Fresh start?" I make my decision, and extend my hand.

"Fresher than the flower dander that Kurt rubs all over his body each morning." She shakes my hand once, but dramatically so, making a large loop. I tug back before she can do anymore.

"You two better not have sex," Kurt interjects.

"Are you kidding me?" I glare over at him. I don't care how much Sadie may have changed, I still would _not_ have sex with her.

"You have a habit of falling into bed with every beautiful woman you befriend." He turns to accuse Sadie.

She appears completely unfazed by it.

"You make it sound like it's a curse. What are you two nerdballs playing anyway? Checkers, really?" She squints at the board.

"It's chess," I inform her.

"Why am I not surprised? This place screams snobbish virgin." Sadie looks around in disgust.

I smile at the insulted expression on Kurt's face.

"You're downright abrasive sometimes," he scolds.

"Hey, I was the only sane one aside from Blondie here Saturday night." Sadie makes her point before picking up one of the out of play pieces to scrutinize it.

"Our family is dysfunctional. We always have been," Kurt reminds nonchalantly.

I don't understand how Sadie came to be a part of this "family". She was friends with Santana, and eventually made friends with many of the people in our circle, but she also came and went from town quite a bit after she graduated.

"Not to be rude, but how did you end up to be this close with everyone?" I allow curiosity to get the better of me.

"Because I'm a big lame-o. I did the tours and the gigs, like Britt. I traveled all over, and I loved it, but it got lonely or some shit like that. So Santana and Puck let me stay with them for a spell while I settled down here," She responds.

"Did you and Santana ever-" My follow-up question is truly what I want an answer to, if I'm being honest.

"Get back together? Oh hell no. She's like my tanner sister now." Sadie seemingly bats away the notion of my question with her hand.

"Don't lie to her, Sadie. They got back together briefly a couple years ago." Kurt glares at her with indignation.

"No we didn't. We just told you that because you caught us having sex and we didn't want the _friends shouldn't have sex with each other_ lecture." Sadie rolls her eyes yet again and Kurt gasps with offense.

The thought doesn't exactly do pleasant things to my stomach.

"Oh, don't act so violated." Sadie notes Kurt's reaction.

"Sisters who have sex?" I inquire, and Sadie laughs.

"Sometimes. It's been a very long time, however."

"Ah," I mumble, before turning my attention to the chess board.

"So what's the plan?" Sadie pokes at Kurt's side.

"The plan?" I glance between the two of them.

"Shh, Sadie!" Kurt scolds.

"Oh you think you're being sly? I didn't grow up with the girl like you did, but I still know that she's too smart of a cookie to be believing your bullshit." Sadie wags her finger.

"I wasn't there _yet_," he retorts.

I don't enjoy feeling like the only one in the room that isn't privy to information. I've felt like that far too frequently lately.

"Just tell me," I demand.

"I don't know how much Mr. Fashionista has shared, but we've known about you being in town for a few weeks now, and Santana, well, she's known for a few months," Sadie spills.

My mind swims instantly with the new information. Months? Even if Santana had seen me during the days she walked by that is by no means a few months.

"How-?" I breathe.

"You'll have to ask her that. I don't think we're allowed to share, but it has something to do with her work." Sadie halts me with her hand.

"Okay, does she know that I'm not—do you two know that I'm not—" I don't usually stumble over my words like this.

"Not what? Not hiding in Narnia anymore?" Sadie guesses my theme.

I nod.

"Yes." Kurt answers the question.

_Santana knows that I'm out._

"Oh," I acknowledge. I have no idea what that revelation means.

"We're worried about her." Kurt gives me a few seconds to absorb before he directs us back.

"Why?" She seemed okay enough when I've seen her. Although she hasn't exactly acted normal around me.

"Well for one she's been working herself into the ground, and the work is-" Kurt continues.

"Questionable." Sadie's eyes widen as she interrupts.

"I'm not even sure if some of it is legal," Kurt adds.

"What does this have to do with me? I wasn't around for her career decisions," I remind them.

"We know," Kurt swallows.

"As I said on Saturday, Santana can handle herself. We all know that. With that said, Santana is also stubborn, and she won't exactly open up about what this job is doing to her." Sadie's frustration is almost palpable.

"She's not the same," Kurt frowns.

"Yeah. She's dark and twisty," Sadie agrees.

"I'm still not understanding what my role is in this."

"I had a thing for Santana for months before I even met you, Quinn. I didn't understand why she wasn't quite into me like I was her. And then you started working with us, and I knew. I remember thinking that you were both idiots for going at each other like you did when it was so obvious that you were desperately in love with each other."

"And yet you still dated Santana," Kurt chuckles in disbelief.

"Hey, I'm only a year older than you chumps. There's not that much of a wisdom difference. I knew Quinn wasn't the kind to shout or even whisper "lesbian", and Santana is fucking hot," Sadie defends, as if I'm not sitting right here.

"You're crazy." Kurt pinches the bridge of his nose.

"I dated a Quinn style closet case in high school. I really liked Santana, and I thought that maybe if she gave us a chance she wouldn't get caught up in the very heartbreak that she eventually had to endure."

"Crazy, but a sweetheart sometimes," Kurt softens.

"Sometimes. Anyway, my point is, I've never seen anyone have the sort of impact on Santana as you once did Quinn." It's as if she suddenly remembers that I'm in the room.

"And the way she went all Stonehenge face on Saturday is a clear indication that you have not lost that influence." Sadie finishes.

"What do you expect me to do? I was lucky to get a "Hi" out of her the other day. Regardless, this is really not my place," I assert. I don't understand what they expected to get out of this. Santana isn't exactly welcoming me back into her life with open arms. _Who am I to give her any opinion on her life?_

"She said hi to you?!" Kurt exclaims.

"Calm down, Fruity Cupid. We don't expect anything. We know that she isn't listening to us or to Rachel or to Puck or to Brittany. There's a chance that maybe, after some time, you'll be able to reach her."

"We gotta get you two to actually talk first though," Kurt states the obvious.

"I want to get to know Santana again, but this feels wrong. I don't want to manipulate her into talking to me, and I definitely don't want to go into a friendship with her with a mission of any kind other than getting to know her. Frankly, I'm hurt, Kurt. I thought you were interested in being my friend, not in using me to get Santana to do what _you_ think is best for her."

"I am interested in being your friend, Quinn," Kurt argues, and flashes a look in Sadie's direction.

"What? Am I supposed to echo that sentiment? She's in the middle of telling us off right now," Sadie refuses.

"Are you sure about that? I won't be anyone's puppet," I challenge Kurt.

"Yes, Quinn. Even if you and Santana never speak again I would be honored to have you back in my life," Kurt promises.

"Okay. I'm sorry that you think Santana isn't in a good place. I hope that that isn't the case. But, I'm not going to force my friendship upon her nor will I force my ideas upon her. People have done that to me my entire life."

"This is not going well," Sadie mutters.

"I want to get to know her again, but only if she wants me to, okay?" I explain.

"Okay." Kurt looks ashamed of himself.

"I would like to figure out what would be the best opportunity to talk to her, however, and if you were willing to help me with that I would appreciate it," I soften somewhat at Kurt's expression.

"We can do that." Kurt exchanges eye contact with Sadie and they both nod.

It's not what I expected from today, but I believe Kurt when he says that he is interested in being my friend. I'm still not sold on Sadie, but maybe she's the sort of person that grows on you. As for Santana, I'm not going to shove myself down her throat, but I'm not giving up either. If this mismatched duo can help facilitate progress then I'm grateful to have them.

"Checkmate." I announce as I win the game.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter VII**

* * *

**Santana's POV**

Sadie hasn't answered my last two phone calls or my text messages alerting her to my presence at the front of the building. I had to go into work before five this morning, and I am tired and grouchy. If tonight wasn't Brittany's first night in town in what feels like forever, I would be in my bed by now. She has invited all of us over to her place for dinner tonight, and although I can't imagine what strange creation she is going to feed us, I'm anxious to see my old friend.

Impatient, I climb the steps to Sadie's practice studio. The stairway is narrow and stuffy which, given my overheated suited state, does nothing positive for my mood.

By the time I've reached the third floor to enter the studio I'm cursing Sadie under my breath. She doesn't seem to notice; her eyes are closed and she's spinning effortlessly in the middle of the floor to some orchestral music that I can barely hear. If we weren't going to be late, and if I wasn't irritated with her, I would probably hesitate to interrupt.

"Sadie." She doesn't stop dancing.

I sigh, scanning her lithe form as it creates a practiced variety of graceful shapes. In high school, Sadie and I taught dance classes together for middle school kids. I never had the talent that she did, however. From the very first time I saw her dance, I knew she was something special. Back then, her and Brittany didn't exactly get along (Brittany drunkenly came after Sadie with a broken beer bottle one night at a party when Sadie was giving me a birthday lap dance). But now, they were thick as thieves. I jump at every opportunity to see the two of them dance together. It never fails to give me goosebumps.

Due to Sadie's fondness for our equally talented friend, I'm really not sure why she clearly is not ready to go. She's not even dressed for dinner. Knowing Brittany, I'm probably overdressed, but I haven't had time to go home and change into something more casual. I feel like I've been living in suits as of late.

"Ginger! What the hell are you doing? You're not even dressed and we're supposed to be to Britt's within the half hour. Did you forget?" I step further into the studio, insisting that she recognizes my presence.

She sticks her spin, throwing back her thick mane of red hair with a wide smile. She quickly attempts to hide her teeth with her lips, but the jig is up. I know that look. She's hiding something from me. It's evident to me that she did not in fact forget that I am supposed to be picking her up on my way to Britt's place.

"Okay, what's the secret?" I narrow my eyes at her.

Before Sadie can respond, movement from my left attracts my attention.

"Why do you have to ruin every surprise, Party Pooper?" A grinning Brittany slides her way out from behind a side door.

I can't tell you which one of us covered the most distance-admittedly it's probably her given her much longer legs- but she's in my arms within seconds. I have missed her. I love how successful my friends are, don't get me wrong; they're amazing and I want them all to be as happy as possible. But, I hate how often their success takes them from me. Brittany and Rachel are two of my favorite people in the entire world, but unfortunately they travel the most.

She squeezes me, drawing her arms back to my sides. Her hair smells like cherries. It's always offered me a comfort of sorts.

"What are you doing here, B?" I hug her once more for good measure. I haven't felt like myself lately. It's as if work is the entirety of my identity now. I forget sometimes who I used to be. Brittany is a welcome reminder.

"I'm going to go get changed," Sadie informs us over her shoulder with a small wave, exiting the room from the same door that Brittany entered in.

"When's the last time you danced?" Brittany asks me with a cock of her head, floating her hands forward to unbutton my suit jacket.

Her attention to my outfit brings my attention to hers. She's in a bright yellow empire-waist dress, with a black ribbon tied around her middle. It suits her, although it is outside of her usual quirky style. My curiosity is immediately piqued.

"I couldn't tell you," I respond honestly. If I have to guess, it has probably been months at least; my job doesn't exactly leave much time for dancing.

"That's silly. Dance with me." It's not a request; it's not something that the average person would recognize as an order, however, because her voice is so soft when she says it. Brittany has always possessed a quiet sort of authority.

"I'm not dressed for dancing," I protest anyway. Brittany scrunches her nose, reaching to take a portion of my jacket collar between her finger and thumb. She's never been a fan of my formal wardrobe.

"Some things are better when you're not prepared for them," she contends simply. I know this is a losing battle.

"What about our friends?" I raise. I can just imagine Puck and Kurt squabbling outside of Brittany's apartment door about what time they were supposed to arrive.

Brittany takes my cheeks into her hands.

"Stop worrying for five minutes, Santana. Stop calculating, stop planning, stop controlling," she commands with her piercing blue eyes.

I take her left hand down from my cheek, cradling it in mine to signal that I am consenting to the dance.

"Easier said than done," I smile, moving my other hand to her shoulder as her free hand falls on my waist.

I allow her to lead me around the floor. The movements are instinctual, even after all of this time, although my body definitely registers that it's been ages.

"I have something to tell you, and I don't want your mind in a bagillion other places when I do it. I want you to be the first person I tell," Brittany confesses, spinning me around with what I can only describe as a serious smile on her face.

"What's going on?" I squint at her as she pulls me back into her body.

"I'm engaged." Her smile brightens.

"What?" I take a bewildered step back.

As far as I know Brittany has this interesting thing going with a married couple that she met over a year ago. I know they all have been sleeping together, but I'm not aware that there is much more to it than that. _Did she meet someone else?_ Surely she would have told me.

"You know, like I'm gonna get married," Brittany defines, as if the word "engagement" was my point of confusion.

"To who?! What happened to the couple you were seeing?" Not that I am super concerned about them. I've only met them twice, and never in settings where I've had much of a chance to get to know either of them. Marley had seemed genuinely sweet, but Jesse seemed to be in a state of constant overcompensation.

"Yes." She nods.

I don't recall asking a yes or no question.

"Yes what, Britt?" I wave my hands in an effort to get her to elaborate.

"Jesse and Marley asked me to marry them." She finally elaborates. My jaw drops, and Brittany giggles, guiding my hands back into dancing position.

"Them? As in both of them?" I'm shocked to say the least.

Brittany laughs again and nods her head enthusiastically. I take a few deep breaths as we dance. I had known by the way that Brittany would speak of them that she cared for them both deeply. This, _marriage_, just wasn't ever in my realm of possibilities. I figured that the whole group relationship thing was something that she would lose interest in eventually and move on as she often does.

"You can't-" The law has come far in recent years in the equality area, but poly marriage is still not recognized.

"I'm not stupid, Santana. I know what I'm doing," she cuts me off, banging her head against my shoulder gently.

"I know you're not stupid Brittany but-" I try to explain. I don't think Brittany is stupid, not at all. She thinks differently than most people do, but that makes her unique, not stupid. I would go toe to toe with anyone who would argue otherwise.

"No buts. I love them, and they love me. It's all that matters." She raises her head from my shoulder.

"I know you think that, Brittany, but the law-" She's shushing me, bringing her finger to my lips, pressing it forcefully against them.

"I've never liked rules." She shakes her head.

I can see in her blue eyes how determined she is, and how happy she is. Brittany moves to a beat of a drum that is entirely her own. She doesn't accept social norms that she doesn't agree with or understand.

Brittany loves like no one I have ever met. She's never had an issue with loving more than one person at once.

I laugh softly, and I can faintly feel moisture building behind my eyelids.

"No you haven't." I mimic the shaking motion of her head. She kisses my cheek with a triumphant smile, indicating to me that she knows now that I'm on board.

"I'll ruin them if they hurt you," I threaten seriously. Whether she marries one person or a village, people are going to treat her fucking right. I'll make sure of it.

"I know. I warned them about you. It only seemed fair to do so," she shrugs nonchalantly. I would have loved to be a fly on the wall during that conversation.

I know that Brittany's marriage won't be legally recognized, but it isn't just the lack of title that is the issue. Without legal recognition, her rights will not be enforceable.

"Good. I'm going to draft some things for all three of you to sign," I inform her.

There is no way that I'm allowing Brittany to enter into a marriage unprotected. If she's doing this, she's going to be treated like an equal, and that includes property interests.

"Whatever you like." She kisses my cheek once more before sending me into another spin, my heels sliding on the hardwood floor.

"Would you be my Best Woman?" she requests, dipping me down.

"I think it's called a Maid of Honor, B," I correct.

"You wouldn't make a good maid." She knits her eyebrows together in a somber fashion. She is right about that.

Of course, Brittany would insist on doing everything in her own special way.

"I would be honored, but do I still have to go eat whatever crackpot thing you've cooked for tonight?" I joke and Brittany frowns at me.

"I didn't cook. Marley did. Her food tastes like clouds."

"That's a relief."

She shoves me playfully, and I turn to the music screen in an effort to figure out how to turn off Sadie's music.

"I can't fit both of you ballerinas on my bike," I explain. I'm not sure how Brittany got to the studio, and while neither Britt nor Sadie are big girls, my bike still only seats two.

"I know. Sadie drove herself. And I'll be driving your bike while you ride bitch," Brittany declares matter-of-factly.

I know that Brittany did motocross for a while, but it has been years since she did so, and the girl is a crazy driver. While I usually allow Brittany to get her way most of the time, there is no way that I'm going to let her drive my bike in NYC (even if traffic is lighter in this neighborhood than most others).

"Oh you will?" I give her a look that distinctively relays that it isn't going to happen.

"Yeah." She does her forward nod thing where she pushes her lips out while squinting her eyes. It's a mannerism of hers that I can't help but love. But it's still not happening.

I leave her side to peer up at the screen. It doesn't look like it has a voice command system, but I try to turn off the music that way, just in case. Hopefully Sadie is going to come back in before she takes off, because I'm having no luck.

"Guess who called me the other day," Britt offers from behind me.

"Another dance company offer?" I guess absentmindedly. It took some time for Brittany's career to take off, but once it did, it really took off.

"Quinn," she answers.

I remain facing the screen, even though I've given up on it. I've heard that name far too frequently as of late. I know that Kurt and even Sadie (what the fuck?) have been hanging out or something like that with her lately. I mean, of course they can do whatever they wantj, and at least they haven't been bringing her out with us, but it's still weird.

Kurt felt obligated to tell me about it, but I didn't ask for details.

"She did?"

"I'm going to see her this Thursday." Brittany has appeared by my side, and her eyes are roaming my face in a disquieting manner.

"Oh." I attempt to look at neutral as possible.

"Why does that make you sad?" She tilts her head forward.

I don't even know how to begin to answer that. Maybe it's because Quinn and I never really had any closure. We broke up and didn't speak at all for over seven years. But still, it has been _so_ long. It shouldn't still matter.

Maybe it's because I continue to be impossibly attracted to her. Maybe it's because I've started having almost nightly dreams of her again. Maybe because I'm feeling things that I fail to understand and that I refuse to process.

I have sex with women on a relatively frequent basis, one handshake should _not_ do what hers did to me.

"It doesn't make me sad. It's not that. I don't want to ruin your celebration night, we'll just have to talk before Thursday, okay?" I request sincerely.

Tonight is about Brittany. I don't want to unload my confusion on her now.

"Is she dying?" Britt's brow furrows in concern and I'm quick to correct her.

Although that _would_ explain why Quinn contacted us after all this time.

"Oh no, no B, it's nothing like that. There are just some things from my past that I've never told you."

Brittany sits down on the bench neighboring the mirrors, and pats the space next to her. I briefly think about my suit and how many sweaty asses have probably been on that bench, and I scowl.

Plus, we have who knows how many people waiting for us.

"We have time. " Brittany proclaims. She's determined, and I know that we're not going anywhere until I speak. I take the seat next to her and I dive right in.

"Quinn and I dated senior year of high school." Brittany searches my eyes when I say it. She studies my face as if she's looking for any sign of jest. I can practically see her mind absorbing the information.

She surprises me by bursting into a fit of giggles. She responds to my confession as soon as she recovers.

"Mike and I had sex in your house during the winter break after we graduated when he broke up with Tina. We thought he only liked Asian girls, remember? Maybe it was my eyes, they _are_ a little-" I hold up my hand to cease further explanation.

We had already moved out at that point and my mom was trying to sell the house, but that was still gross and not to mention really random.

"What the actual fuck?" I cry out.

"What? I thought we were sharing irrelevant stories from the past." She shrugs and we share an affectionate smile.

Since Quinn's "outness" has been revealed, no one has seemed especially shocked or surprised by the fact that we used to be a couple. Maybe we were far more obvious than I ever realized.

I expected Brittany of all people to have a significant reaction, however. We were friends with benefits for almost a year until Brittany confessed to me that the arrangement was causing her turmoil and confusion. Quinn told me on more than one occasion that Brittany was still combating feelings for me well after I had discontinued the benefits portion of our friendship. Quinn had been very concerned that Brittany would be hurt if she ever found out that Quinn and I were in a relationship.

"I kept it from you. She wasn't comfortable being out, and we were both afraid of hurting you at the time." I would rather she hear it from me than from Quinn on Thursday, after all; I'm the one who has been in Brittany's life all this time. I would have told Brittany senior year, if I had been able to have my way.

"Hurting me?"

"Yes, I remember how upset you were when Sadie and I-" That's only partially true. I remember the beer bottle incident, but Brittany opened up far more to Quinn about how she felt about Sadie than she did to me.

"Sometimes I think you are the smartest person in the whole world, and other times-I would say but that would be bullying and you know how I feel about bullying." She pokes my nose with her finger, similar to how I often to do her during her fleeting moments of self-doubt.

"How about you just spell it out for me, Einstein?"

"This has nothing to do with light bulbs."

I don't bother to correct her about the inventor of the light bulb, I flash her a look to compel her to continue instead.

"Were you in love with Quinn?" she asks, toying with the tie around her waist.

"Yes." _My god, how I was._

"That's the difference. I didn't understand why you could have a relationship with Sadie but not me when you didn't love her either."

I flinch when Brittany says that I didn't love her. It wasn't that. I loved her, I really did, but not in the romantic way that I believed that she was starting to feel back then. Sadie was new at the time, and I wasn't sure how my feelings would develop for her. And to be honest, I cared much more for Brittany than I did Sadie, so I was much more cautious about hurting Brittany.

"I've always loved you, B," I challenge.

"Duh. And you love Sadie now too." I do. My friends are my family.

It's always amazed me how we could have a full conversation with so few words. We are so different, but I understand her, as she does me. Brittany at one point wanted to be as close to me as possible, and when she watched Sadie assuming that role without understanding why Sadie was different, that was what had bothered her.

But, she understands why Quinn was different.

"So is she coming around again to win you back?" She nudges me with her shoulder, and I push my hand through my hair.

I don't know why Quinn's coming around again. I haven't exactly had a conversation with her about it. In fact, I don't know why she cut everyone out of her life when we broke up. I can only guess.

"No. She lives here now; I think she's trying to reconnect." I offer.

"Have you asked her?"

"Have I asked her what?"

She laughs at me like I am the most ridiculous person she's ever encountered.

"It's much easier to find your answers, Santana, if you actually ask the questions." She places her hands on my shoulders shaking me gently to emphasize her point.

"Who says I have questions?" I cock a challenging eyebrow in her direction.

I have many questions. I'm just not sure I want the answers. I don't know what I want.

"Your face does," she gestures.

"Oh shut up." I tug my mouth to the side. Brittany would have made a great reader, although the rest of the fixing job would not suit her.

"I've seen your_ O_ face. Your face holds no secrets for me," she teases, and although I don't say it "oh my god!" is written all over my features.

"I've seen it, too! But, why are we talking about Santana's _O_ face?" Sadie returns to the room, and immediately approaches the screen to shut off the music.

"I hate you both. Now c'mon. I'm sure your betrotheds need rescuing from Kurt by now." I suggest, eager to change the subject. There are some downsides to having friends with common sexual history.

"Bethrothed? You're getting married?!" Sadie squeals, grabbing Brittany's hands to do the typical girly freakout jumpfest.

_Whoops._ It slipped my mind that I am the first one that Brittany told. Brittany doesn't seem upset about my blurting of her news, however.

Brittany entertains Sadie's excitement before she halts the celebration. I can't help but smile at the two of them. I'm very blessed to have people like them in my life.

"Yup, and _you're_ throwing me my bachelorette party," Brittany demands to Sadie, and Sadie drags her fist down the side of her body in a distinctive "yes!" motion.

"Hey, that's my job!" I contest. I'm not well-versed in weddings, although I've been to my fair share, but I do know that as the Best Woman, I'm supposed to be in charge of that.

"Sadie will throw a much better party," Brittany claims, and I do my best to not pout in response.

"You've got that right," Sadie agrees, and I dejectedly walk them both out the door.

Sure, I don't have much time for party planning, but for Brittany I would have done my best. Oh well, Sadie would throw quite the bash, I am sure of that, and this is about Brittany not me.

Before we reach my bike, I insist to Brittany that I must hear everything about Jesse and Marley. She asks me what the point of that is when she's sure I'm going to have files on both of them within the next 24 hours.

"Files don't have feelings Brittany, and I know how much you like those."

"I love you, Santana," she murmurs against my back, once she compliantly throws her leg over my bike.

"I love you too, Britt," I return, smiling back at her as I turn the engine over.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter VIII**

**A/N: I have a few specific thank yous to start here. **

**1. To the guest reviewer Paula Abdul, your review made my day, and quite possibly my week. It made me laugh, and I really appreciate your kindness. P.S. Your review sounded like it could have been written by some of my friends. A+. **

**2. To my beta and buddy ckeller48, I'd be lost without you like the Robin Thicke song. **

**3. To everyone who takes the time to leave me feedback on here or on Tumblr, it means the world to me to have such engaged readers. Thank you all so very much.**

****There is something a little different in this chapter. There is a scene where Quinn can hear a conversation going on while she is engaged in a different one. While she can "hear" this other conversation she's not "listening" to it. The dialogue that she can hear but is not actively listening to is in italics. Hopefully this explanation helps to avoid some confusion.****

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

"You look beautiful, Quinn!" Kurt appraises me as soon as I reach him on the subway platform.

We had planned to meet at a restaurant that Kurt highly recommended but I still wasn't quite an expert on the subway system. After he twice attempted to explain which trains I would need to take to which stops, he offered to meet me at the stop nearest to my apartment instead.

"Thank you, and thanks for meeting me. I'm sure I'll get used to this city eventually." I wave my hands in a message of defeat.

"You will. You're light years ahead of where Puck and Rachel were when they first moved here. Puck used the GPS on his phone and tried to walk everywhere because he was too stubborn to learn the public transit system, and Rachel would call me in tears about twice a week because she was lost in perfectly safe neighborhoods. I don't know how many times either Santana or I had to retrieve her from the _dangerous_ streets of West Village or Greenwich," Kurt concludes sarcastically.

I laugh at the imagery he creates for me. That's the Puck and Rachel that I miss rather than the angry and resentful pair I encountered weeks ago. I've been debating on whether I want to attend Brittany's bachelorette party mainly because I know they will be there. Mercedes will also be in attendance, which makes it very difficult for me to rationalize skipping the event. I want to see her as much as possible while she's in town, and yet, each time I think about seeing Puck and Rachel again I'm riddled with nausea. Not to mention how disappointed I know Britt would be if I were to opt out of attending.

I've been spending time with Brittany about two to three times a week ever since we met up at the dog park about two months ago (neither of us have dogs, but it was a very typical Brittany request). In fact, she's quickly becoming one of my closest friends in the city. It is incredible how quickly we fell back into the old pattern of our friendship. For example, much like she did in high school, she alternates between sending me random facts and even stranger questions via text throughout the day.

Some things have changed, of course, however. Instead of drinking cheap liquor in parking lots or at huge parties, we drink wine on her balcony while she speaks almost wistfully about her tours in Europe. Instead of goofing around in the back of Glee Club, she pushes me to sing with her while we're rollerblading or shopping in stores that play songs that she knows. She tells me almost every time that she has missed my voice. She is such a beacon of light, as she always has been. I wish I could have found a way to retain her light in my life when my life was at its darkest.

She wasn't mad at me about what I did to her and to our other friends, and Santana apparently had already broken the news to her about our relationship. She said that she wished I would have told her, and that she wished that she had been offered the opportunity that Mercedes had. It was sweet of her to say, but I don't think she has any idea just how much she talks about Santana. Her fiancés are the only people she speaks of more, and even then it is pretty close.

Asking anyone to refrain from sharing a portion of their life with you is a tall order. Asking a free spirit like Brittany to do so would have been another animal altogether. Love is as much a part of Brittany as lungs or kidneys are to anyone else. It's how she lives; it's how she functions.

But, between Brittany, Kurt-and yes even Sadie-I've become accustomed to hearing about my ex-girlfriend. I actually enjoy hearing stories about her now. I don't know what to compare it to. It's akin to hearing about an old friend, but it's an old friend that everyone but you sees on a regular basis. Only it's not an old friend, it's someone who you once knew more intimately than anyone else, sometimes even better than you knew yourself, and better than anyone you've met since. It's like hearing about things that you should have known all along. Memories that you should have had and stories that you should be telling. It doesn't feel wrong per se. It's not the unnerving sensation that accompanies the sense of déjà vu, but it is similar in the way that it is a feeling that I cannot place. I'm handed these precious puzzle pieces without any idea of what I'm supposed to be putting together.

"Do you have gum? I was starving on my way out the door and made the poor decision to eat a piece of this Mexican candy that my doorman gave me. My mouth tastes like a burnt pineapple flavored Churro." Kurt opens and closes his mouth to illustrate his distaste.

I wrinkle my nose at his description and reach into my purse in the general vicinity of where I usually keep gum. I retrieve the gum, dropping an item that I don't bother to glance at back into my purse.

"Was that pepper spray?" Kurt questions as I hand him a piece of gum.

"Yes. Jesse insisted the other night that I start carrying it."

Brittany's fiancé, Jesse St. James, is a character, to say the least. He exudes confidence, and is the master of backhanded compliments. Brittany insists, however, that he is soft and gooey on the inside. The more time I spend with him, the more I get that impression.

"He's an opinionated fellow, isn't he? I thought he was gay when I first met him, but here soon enough he will be married to _two_ women," Kurt expresses with wide eyes.

Brittany didn't tell me about her engagement until my third or fourth time seeing her. I've never known someone in a relationship like hers before. The only people I knew who were in relationships with multiple people at the same time were considered cheaters. But, after years of struggling to be open about who I am because of who I love (not because I had any internal issues with homosexuality, but purely because of the judgment of others), I can hardly condemn Brittany for loving who she loves and wanting to express that.

"You also thought Sam was gay when you first met him, and you believed there was a chance that Finn could go both ways, and if I remember correctly you argued that Sadie was 100% straight for a good two months, which drove Mercedes crazy junior year," I cite and Kurt makes a "harumpf" sound before sighing in agreement.

"Okay okay, maybe I should leave the gaydar to Santana. She has a gift for it."

From what I can remember, she definitely does. It isn't just sexuality that Santana is gifted at guessing, she has a talent for coming to other conclusions about people from the observations she gathers as well.

"I don't get it. Fashion is your career and yet you let this poor broad walk around like this. My dear, you look like Grace Kelly in her prime, but you dress like you found your clothes in the maternity section of the nearest dilapidated thrift store," Sebastian criticizes as he traverses the stairs to join us.

Kurt had warned me that Sebastian would be joining us for dinner. Apparently Kurt owes him a favor for something, and that favor is dinner. Even with the heads up, I can't help but cringe as soon as Sebastian makes his presence known.

"How much did the surgery cost for you to fuse the ends of your forked tongue together, Sebastian?" I challenge back. Sebastian is such a fucking snake.

"Oo, look little miss milk maid has an edge to her." Sebastian wiggles his fingers to punctuate.

"She looks cute, and her shoes are at least two seasons ahead of yours. Curb your rudeness for the evening," Kurt orders and I glance between the two men in a half-hearted attempt to discern their dynamic.

This is the first time I've been around Sebastian since that night at Santana's office. I vaguely remember Sebastian hitting on Kurt, and I can't help but wonder what sort of favor Kurt had required of the taller man.

The train that we need slides to a stop, and Kurt and I wait politely for the riders to exit, while an impatient Sebastian pushes his way on. We enter ourselves once the doors are clear, and Kurt takes the seat next to Sebastian. I am sure to sit on the other side of Kurt, because there is no way that I'm going to endure more of Sebastian's proximity than I have to.

As the train lurches forward, a stranger sits down on my right. After a few moments, I turn my head, because I can feel her eyes on me.

She raises a hand immediately in apology.

"Oh sorry, excuse my stare, but I could swear that I know you from somewhere," she explains.

I politely scan her face in search of her meaning. She appears to be approximately my age, but there is nothing striking about her features. She's pretty in an unremarkable way, and I can't find anything familiar about her.

"It's fine," I offer in return, because I honestly can't say the same.

She apologizes again before recognition overcomes her features and she shakes her finger in my direction.

"Cheerleading Nationals 2011! That is where I know you from. You went to McKinley right? Cheerios?" she beams, and I laugh softly making an "o" shape with my mouth while my head rolls back.

I remember that year. Our squad was incredible, and there was no question that the title was ours once again. Santana had been attacked at prom the weekend before, and she still had a bandage on her face from the incident. I organized for our entire squad and cheering section to wear a similar bandage as a show of support. I never told her that I was the one who did it, but our friend Dakota revealed it to her months later. I can count on only one hand the number of times Santana kissed me with more passion than she did after she found out. I can still remember the look on her face when she saw her squad, and then when saw the crowd. God, what I would give to see that face again.

"What a great memory you have; yes I did." It seems like a lifetime ago. I'm not the same girl as that head cheerleader, but it is nice to reminisce with someone, certainly.

"I went to Garfield. We were the Lions. We got fifth place that year. It was the best we ever did. I am Ashley Reynolds." The Garfield Lions sounds familiar, but I honestly can't recall their colors or anything else about them.

I reach my hand out to shake hers. It's not very hot out today, and our subway car isn't packed yet, but her hand is definitely sweating. I don't give it a second thought.

"Quinn Fabray. It's nice to meet you," I smile warmly.

"Wait, Fabray? Are you related to the guy that is running for governor? I think I saw some of his commercials when I was visiting my parents in Indiana last month. They practically live on the Ohio border so we get some of the channels."

_"Don't look now, Fancy, but Fabray's new friend is lying to her," Sebastian whispers to Kurt._

_"What? How do you know that?" Kurt scoffs._

"Um, yeah, I am. That's my father, actually. I'm sorry that you had to endure some of his advertisements," I apologize.

I haven't watched most of them. They only serve to piss me off. I honestly never paid much attention to his politics, except for what was required of me for his networking events and parties. When he was a big fish in a small pond it didn't matter to me much, but now, now he reportedly has a very good chance of becoming governor. The thought of him trying his darndest to turn back progress, and actually having the ability to do so, makes me feel ashamed to be his daughter.

_"Her smile isn't real, she isn't using contractions, and the only movements she's making with her upper body are especially deliberate. Also, I would wager that she's from somewhere around South Carolina, not Indiana," Sebastian outlines._

"You don't sound like you're a fan," Ashley laughs and I shake my head.

"I won't be voting for him, that's for sure." I realize how nice it is to meet someone so friendly in New York. The strangers who usually talk to me aren't anything like her.

_"Why would she lie about who she is?" Kurt asks._

_"There's the million dollar question. Don't be obvious about it, but take a gander at the way she's sitting. Her body isn't turned into Quinn's as you would face a new acquaintance; it's awkward, but she's mindful of it. She's ensuring that the recording device in her jacket pocket picks up Quinn's voice," Sebastian observes._

"Not voting for your own dad? Policy differences?" Ashley tilts her head towards me in interest.

_"So what, she's a reporter or something?" Kurt infers._

_"Most likely," Sebastian appraises._

_"What are you going to do about it?" Kurt poses in concern._

"You could say that." I shrug, marginally uncomfortable at the question. A subway isn't really the proper place to get into such a discussion. I may not be my father's most ardent supporter, but I usually don't make a habit of trashing him to complete strangers.

"I don't agree with my dad on anything either. I think the man would live in the 1950s if he could." Ashley smiles at me compassionately, and it serves to quiet some of my discomfort.

"It sounds like our fathers have something in common then."

Gosh, what are the chances of meeting another Midwestern girl who is a former cheerleader with a similar minded father? Small world.

_"Me? Oh, I'm not the physical type. That isn't my area of expertise," Sebastian refuses._

_"Physical? Why does it have to get physical?"_

_"One piece of her outfit doesn't fit, you see? She has very expensive running shoes on. Once she knows that we know, she's going to run," Sebastian parcels it out for the other man. _

"Not the greatest thing to have in common. Hopefully you have not upset yours as much as I have mine. The look on my father's face when I told him I was bisexual…" Ashley makes a "whew, it was bad" face, and I reach for her hand out of instinct to comfort her.

"I can't imagine he would have taken that well," I remark sympathetically.

"That is an understatement." She looks so sad, and I silently wish that there was more that I could do.

_"We aren't going to do anything?!" Kurt exclaims._

_"Fine. I'll take care of this, but consider it another favor owed," Sebastian acquiesces. _

"I haven't spoken to my father in years, but that's not really a subway train topic," I relate, thinking that perhaps we can exchange numbers and have a more lengthy conversation about it another time. It does seem as if we a significant amount of things in common.

"We will have to come up with something else to talk about then. McKinley, right? Didn't Rachel Berry also go there?"

"She did. We were friends," I dip my head down in acknowledgement.

"Were?" she catches.

Oh shit. The spin story that the fixer team created is supposed to be that Rachel was so excited that I came to the bar to surprise her that it looked like she assaulted me when in fact she was just embracing me. But, surely this is okay, that's a story for the press, not for some Midwestern-raised stranger on the train.

"I don't see her as much as I used to. She's a popular girl," I try to half-save it in any case. I don't need to put my business out there so soon anyway.

"Are you going to introduce us?" Sebastian peeks his head around Kurt, and I flush a bit. How rude of me.

"Ashley, these are my friends, Kurt and Sebastian," I introduce, and they all shake hands. Sebastian isn't a friend, but the train ride isn't long enough to explain who he is.

"Where are you all headed?" Ashley inquires.

Kurt offers the name of the restaurant we are going to, and Ashley appears as if she recognizes it.

"And yourself?" Sebastian reciprocates, and I can't help but wonder why he's being so nice.

"I am headed home for the day," she answers.

"Well you should join us for dinner then," Sebastian invites, and I literally turn my head in astonishment.

Perhaps he's trying to impress Kurt? I'm really not sure what his motivation is here. Not that I would mind spending more time with Ashley. She seems very nice.

"I couldn't intrude," Ashley declines politely, and while I understand, I am somewhat disappointed.

"No we insist. New York is a difficult place to meet people. It's always refreshing to meet a friendly person such as yourself," Sebastian maintains.

I meet eyes with Kurt, but he's not returning my "what the fuck" look at all. He doesn't appear to be in the least bit alarmed that Sebastian is suddenly such a friendly guy.

"Okay, sure," Ashley agrees.

"Brilliant," Sebastian remarks, right as the doors open for our first stop.

The instant we file out of the train, Sebastian engages Ashley in yet another conversation. His charm is turned on full blast, and I have to say that I'm rather concerned by his behavior. I make the decision to intervene, but Kurt takes my arm, pulling me out of earshot, as we wait for our connection train.

"Don't tell her anymore personal details okay? Be as vague as possible," Kurt orders in a low voice.

"What?" I mumble in shock. He's acting very strangely, although not as strangely as Sebastian is. I hate this. This has been happening far too frequently lately, where I feel as though I'm the only person not in the know.

I sigh as he fixes his eyes on mine.

"Trust me," he compels.

I, of course, have no idea what is going on, but I can't imagine Kurt asking this of me without reason. I motion my head in reluctant agreement.

During the next subway ride, Ashley is full of questions but I do my best to do as Kurt says. Although I don't particularly enjoy vapid small talk, I was forced to master it from a very young age. Ashley doesn't seem to notice my change in demeanor.

I definitely expect a full explanation from Kurt later. I'm not in the most chipper of moods at this point. I'm frustrated that reconnecting with my old friends has left me so often in the dark. I am determined to give him a word or two about that as well.

Maybe Sebastian overheard my slip up about Rachel, and now he wants me to be overly cautious. I realize that they are both probably trying to help in some form, but it remains irritating.

After one last ride, we reach the surface. My smile feels strained by now, and I can't believe that I'm going to have to endure a full dinner of equally shallow small talk.

Sebastian and Kurt both fail to wait for the crosswalk sign and Ashley and I follow them across the street.

Less than a block later, and after a few vague comments about my career, Sebastian halts ahead of us, cupping his hands over his mouth.

"Lopez!" he shouts, and my heart stops.

I trace his eyes' path with mine, and sure enough, Santana is crossing the street kiddy corner from us.

She's not in her usual pantsuit, but she definitely looks professional, in any case. She's in a pencil skirt, and a deep blue floral printed blouse, with her hair partially pinned back.

I wonder how many times it will take for me to see her and not picture her 18-year-old self. I also how wonder how many times it will take for me to not feel completely unhinged in her presence. Every time I see her I feel lost and found all at once.

Sebastian signals her over to us enthusiastically, and although it's clear that she wavers in her decision for a moment on whether to approach, she does cross the street to meet us.

It's been so long since I've seen her. She hasn't walked by my work site since the day when we "introduced" ourselves to each other. Her eyes roll right over me once she stops in front of us.

"Hey everyone. I can't linger, I have a dinner meeting," she greets us formally as a group. I certainly didn't expect anything more than that, but that doesn't stop me from yearning for more.

It nags at me, burrowing under my skin, itching directly below the surface. I have no control over her eye contact or her enduring refusal to use my name. It aggravates me to such an indescribable degree that I am so provoked by something that I am entirely powerless over.

Sebastian steps to the side to gesture Ashley forward. Ashley glances at me briefly before taking his non-verbal instruction.

"You can meet our new friend first, Lopez. Santana this is Ashley. She's an undercover reporter who has a recording device in the lining of her jacket. Isn't that right, Ashley?" Sebastian smirks, and my mind spins.

_What?_

Before I can fully register Sebastian's words, Ashley takes off, sprinting to the right of Santana.

"Oh and she's a runner," Sebastian calls out with a laugh, but Santana has already twisted around to chase after the girl.

"Not again. Fucking heels!" Santana complains gruffly, as she turns down an alleyway in pursuit.

_Is it always like this for them? Jesus Christ._

She's faster than I remember, but it has been years since we ran suicides together, which means my memory could very well be skewed. It's a possibility that my opinion is also colored by the fact that she's moving so rapidly in what appears to be at least three inches of heel.

This explains why Kurt told me not to reveal any more personal details. But why the hell would a reporter want to record a conversation with me?

Sebastian struts forward, and I regard Kurt with complete shock before we follow suit. Upon reaching the mouth of the alley, I can see that Santana has successfuly caught Ashley (if that is in fact her name).

Santana has the girl's arms restrained, and she's whispering something darkly into her ear. Sebastian motions for us to stay, as he approaches the pair. He retrieves the device first from Ashley's jacket; it appears to be a phone. With a few movements of his thumb over the screen, he returns the device to her pocket, and briskly frisks the rest of her.

"How new are you, sweetheart? You shouldn't be carrying your press ID on a job like this," he makes a "tsking" noise with his mouth. He snaps a picture of the press ID with his phone, and then promptly returns it to the reporter.

Ashley can barely move enough to wiggle in Santana's grip. For the most part, Santana has the woman locked firmly in place.

I briefly flash back to Halloween night our senior year, when Santana had Finn restrained on the ground, and I was legitimately afraid that she was going to break his arm.

I didn't find out until our junior year that Santana's father had been training her in Jiu-Jitsu since our early years of elementary school. We grew up together, so I always knew that her father was some sort of intimidating black belt, but for whatever reason, she never told me about her own training.

"Let me go!" The woman shouts in frustration, but Sebastian utters something to her that promptly causes the girl to close her mouth.

Santana speaks next, and I watch attentively as her mouth moves, but her voice is too low for me to hear. Is Santana threatening her? She's so controlled, her face is unreadable. She's fierce, and powerful. She doesn't appear capable of the remarkable tenderness that she once treated me with.

Perhaps it's the thought of her tenderness, and the fact that seeing her like this has me, admittedly, kinda turned on, that my mind takes me back to the first time she ever made love to me.

* * *

_I laughed softly and nodded, glancing further up only briefly to take note of Santana's intentions as she pulled her hair up into a ponytail with the hair tie she had kept around her wrist._

_I almost pouted. I was enjoying the feel of her silky hair on my bare skin._

_"I love you." She professed from above me, and my heart demonstrated that it was still in working condition._

_"I love you, too." I professed in return, as a smile of pure relaxation and contentment played on my lips._

_"I'm so ready to taste more of you." She rasped, her insatiable brown eyes trailing down and between my legs._

_My jaw was already slacked from relaxation, but fell further from her admission._

**_More?_**

_Well, that explained the hair tie. I never even thought about how girls would probably want to put their hair up for such things._

_"I've never had…um…" I stuttered._

_"No one has ever gone down on you before?" She found my words for me, as she often did lately._

_I shook my head. I never would let them. It seemed far too intimate and personal. And I figured if they couldn't please me other ways then they certainly wouldn't be able to do it that way either._

_"Do you want me to wait?" Her hands left her hair as the question hung in the air._

_Ugh, how does she manage to be so fucking sensitive and look so fucking hot at the same time?_

_"Just for a few minutes. My body needs a breather." I confessed with a smile._

_And it did need a breather. Those were earthshattering orgasms._

_I wanted her mouth on me. Badly. And, that want overcame any nerves that I may have had._

_"It's okay. I'll get your body used to it eventually." She smirked at me, and my inner walls twitched at her declaration._

_Perhaps some of the confidence coming off of my girlfriend in waves rubbed off on me, but within seconds, I was shoving her back onto the pile of pillows behind her before I could change my mind._

* * *

I force myself to direct my gaze to the left wall of the alley. It's pathetic how I can't look at this woman without losing myself in the past, especially when there is so much action and commotion in the presence. I had vivid dreams about her for years following our separation. Dreams from which I would awake and still feel her phantom touch, and her weight above me.

Sometimes I regret going to the bar that night. Perhaps, if I hadn't, Santana would continue to walk by me every day. At least then I'd be able to see her. The regret never lingers long, however, especially when I'm standing next to Kurt, and when I remember everything that I've gained since then.

Kurt reaches for my hand, squeezing it in what I believe to be a message of comfort. But, I'm not really frightened, I'm discombobulated and frustrated.

"Have a pleasant evening," Sebastian wishes sarcastically, and Santana releases their captive.

The woman doesn't look back, not once, as she walks hurriedly in Kurt and I's direction. She doesn't make eye contact with either of us before she turns onto to the sidewalk. She breaks into a jog before she even reaches the first intersection.

I'm so focused on watching her disappear that I don't realize that Sebastian, and more importantly, Santana have returned to us.

"You can give me the full briefing later, Sebastian. I'm going to be late for my meeting." Santana bends down to adjust the strap of her heel, and it's everything I can do to refrain from looking down her shirt, since her chest is exposed because of the angle.

"You don't have a meeting," Sebastian divulges. Santana rights herself immediately.

"Excuse me?" She sets her jaw, but Sebastian doesn't falter.

Kurt appears as though he feels some sense of obligation to step between the pair, but he doesn't have the fortitude to do so. In fact, he looks guilty. Another mystery to add to the list.

I have no idea what's going on. _Yet again._ But this time, apparently, neither does Santana.

"Is there a reason you had to lie to bring me out here to take care of your novice reporter mess?" Santana confronts, progressing towards Sebastian.

Their relationship seems to be a dangerous one. At any moment, with the right spark, everything could go up in flames.

It reminds me of a darker version of how my friendship with Santana was like before we started dating.

"The reporter was a surprise for all of us. I had Beverly put the meeting on your calendar because we were hoping you would join us for dinner," Sebastian reveals in an apathetic tone.

My mouth drops, and Santana's eyes flash to all three of us. So that's the favor that Sebastian did for Kurt. Kurt's trying to play puppet master to get Santana and me to talk. I thought I had gotten through to him weeks ago. I never wanted to trick Santana into seeing me. This wasn't what I had in mind when I asked Kurt for an opportunity to talk to Santana.

I'm pissed, and I'm definitely not the only one.

"Are you fucking serious?" Santana flips.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. Kurt?" I snarl.

How did they expect this to go exactly? If the Ashley thing hadn't gone down, would they have invited a stood up Santana over to our table? Would she have accepted the invitation? I guess I would never know.

"Quinn, I-" Kurt stammers.

Without another word, Santana abruptly swivels on her heels to walk away.

Against my better judgment, I follow her. I'm not 100% sure on how to get home, and there is no way that I'm spending any more time with Kurt and Sebastian tonight. Most importantly, I need her to know that none of this was my doing. I can't have her thinking that I would want to manipulate her like this.

I do my best half jog in my flats to catch up to her side. She, of course, doesn't acknowledge my presence.

"You don't have to say anything, I just wanted you to know that I didn't have anything to do with that," I profess, somewhat out of breath (due to my nerves and irritation rather than my short burst to reach Santana).

Santana slows her stride, and I'm almost startled when brown eyes regard mine. It's not just anger that I see there. There's definite pain swimming in her gaze. It impacts me immediately, this seems deeper than whatever qualm she has with Kurt right now.

"I know. They've been throwing everything at me that they can lately," she sighs.

In high school we used to fight about how she never offered information without someone asking for it. It always seemed like she had so many secrets, and it was difficult for me to feel like I knew her. Eventually, she opened up to me, however, and it was amazing. I'm stunned that's she's offering me even the little that she's giving me now.

It's a relief to hear that she knows that I wasn't involved, but now I'm not sure what else to say. It's not my place to ask her what she means.

We've reached a sidewalk with very little traffic, and she stops walking, twisting to face me. I practically stumble when I stop to face her in response.

"They think something is wrong with me or something, I don't know. I'm sorry that they got you involved in it. It's despicable really," she apologizes.

I'm mesmerized by every twitch of her eyebrow and every curve of her lip. I can only nod, hoping that she isn't done.

"Try and forgive them if you can though. They care about you, and they don't deserve to lose you again," she finishes.

Is this why she's speaking with me? Because she wants to make sure that I won't disappear on our friends again? It's admirable, I suppose, although not ideal. But, at least she's talking to me. It's the most she's said to me since I first saw her again months ago.

It's difficult to pay due attention to her words when all I want to do is close my eyes and allow her voice to wash over me.

"I care about them, too," I manage. And I do care about them, so much. I don't plan on ever walking away from them again.

"I never doubted it," she confesses. I raise my eyes to absorb her expression. I can find nothing but sincerity there.

It touches me. Maybe it's irrational, but I feared that she thought that I had been careless with my past decisions.

"I wasn't sure if you knew. I thought that maybe we would get another chance to talk, but then I never saw you at my job site after the day when we—" I ramble, and I'm grateful when she cuts me off.

"Introduced ourselves? Yeah. I used to pass it to get to my coffee place." She glances off to the building behind me.

"But you stopped," I say the obvious.

"I did." She gives a short nod before her eyes return to me.

She's not being cold necessarily, but she's being short with me for sure. She's definitely guarded, and I wish I knew how to get her to say more, but it's hard to think straight when she's looking at me.

"Tyler was torn up about it," I settle on.

He really was. He had taken such a quick liking to Santana, not that I was at all surprised by that. I was disappointed, to say the least, about it as well, but I'm not about to make that confession right now.

"I'm sure he found someone else soon enough," she smiles at me, and I think it is the first time that she has smiled directly at me since our freshmen year of college. I know that she's smiling at the thought of Tyler, but a warmth spreads through me anyway.

"You're not so easily replaced," I breathe.

I know that more than anyone. I'm saying a million things with that one sentence, but I'm really not sure whether I want her to know that or not.

"Is that so?" She cocks an eyebrow, but her expression hardens. Maybe it was too much, too soon, to say.

"It is." I don't back down, even if I can see that she's attempting to mask whatever feeling she's having. I'm not sure when or if we'll talk again, and I'm not going to waste this on being anything less than honest.

The thought that I'm not sure when we'll talk again sends a panicked chill through me. I take a knee-jerk leap.

"I'm not very familiar with this area, but one of my co-workers told me about this place that I think is a few streets up that serves amazing tapas and even better froyo," I suggest, and I'm proud to say that there is no shake to my voice when I do so.

"Froyo and tapas? That's new," Santana answers noncommittally.

I try to take the deepest breath I can manage without it being too noticeable.

"I'm willing to try it if you are. I can't offer you the business side of whatever you came here for, but food I can provide." I feel like a middle school boy, asking a girl to the dance for the first time.

_There it is. An invitation. Loud and clear._ She can't evade it.

"Unless your cooking skills have improved, I'm grateful that it isn't homemade food you're providing," she snarks playfully.

_Is that a yes?_ I have to fight like hell to keep the giddy grin from my face.

"They're better, but I won't claim anything of caliber," I admit.

It took me many years to become adequate in the kitchen. I always had a good handle on baking, my mother was insistent that I learn, but otherwise I didn't know my way around a kitchen for the longest time. Santana was different. She taught herself how to cook starting in early high school, thanks to her absentee parents.

"Think you can lead us there?" she questions, and if I didn't know any better, I would say that there is a flirtatious hint to her smile.

"Yes, but I'll double check on my phone just to be sure," I try to avoid looking too frantic as I search my screen.

I point in the direction we need to go as soon as I'm finished, and we walk together for a few steps in silence, before Santana speaks.

"Tell me what happened with the reporter," she requests.

I tell her about everything I can remember on the train, and every question that I remember the woman asking. Santana, for her part, nods on occasion, obviously absorbing the information as we walk.

"Nationals. That was smart. She did her research. Big enough of an event that you wouldn't know everyone from every squad, and it's the sort of thing that builds immediate rapport just by mentioning it," Santana muses aloud.

It's fascinating for me to have a small glimpse into this world. _Her world._ She's like a secret agent or something. It's kinda funny, because in high school after she disabled three of her attackers at prom, a ton of rumors floated around the school about her being a government agent as well as some other equally ridiculous things.

"How did she find me?" I'm not sure where the question comes from, because my thoughts were on my hand twitching to brush against hers, rather than tonight's events.

But, it_ is_ a little scary to think about how there are those who are so interested in my life that they're willing to pretend to be other people merely to get information from me.

"She probably followed you from your apartment. The shoes were a mistake, but I'm sure she didn't anticipate that you'd be with someone with Sebastian's skill set," Santana hypothesizes.

I can guarantee that Santana will be keeping an eye on the young reporter, now that she has her information. I don't even have to ask about it, although I'm not sure why I'm so sure.

"What's the worst she could do?" I have to ask. It seems silly to go to all of that effort.

"It'd be a springboard. The opposition would use you against your father's campaign. Your personal life would be the subject of news. It's similar to what could have happened to you with the Rachel incident, but politicians play much dirtier than gossip blogs," Santana explains.

"Nothing like this ever happened to me until I moved here." More like nothing like this ever happened until I came to the bar that night.

"The Rachel incident would not have occurred, but I'm sure you would still see your share of reporters," she surmises.

When I'm in New York, Ohio, and with that my father's campaign, feels like it is a world away. It's crazy to think that interest in his campaign reaches this far. Although a governorship is unarguably a very big deal.

Our conversation is interrupted, as she holds the restaurant door open for me. We're both slightly overdressed for the establishment, but the host seats us with menus immediately.

I rake my eyes over my menu before I feel another question bubbling in my throat.

"Do you always do as Sebastian says?" It had surprised me how quickly she had moved when Sebastian introduced Ashley. Sebastian and Santana really did not seem like the best of friends.

"No. It depends on the context. If he told me to pick up his dry cleaning, I'd tell him to fuck off. But, when it comes to situations like today, we don't ask questions. We act. It's part of our code, I guess you could say. We give each other hell, but we trust one another. We have to."

"And he couldn't do it himself because?" I ponder.

"Sebastian doesn't like to get his hands dirty. He's not afraid to perform the more unsavory parts of our job, but ask him to restrain a 125-pound girl and he won't do it," she chuckles softly at that, and fuck, how great it is to see her laugh.

"Does that make you the muscle?" I tease good-naturedly.

"There are a handful of us with specialized training. It's one of the reasons why I was hired. The firm pays for me to continue my training." Santana's eyes lose any hint of mirth, but I'm not comfortable enough to ask why.

Maribel Lopez isn't the kind of person who would hire family members just because. I'm sure that Santana had to earn her place there, just like anyone else.

The server appears before I can change the subject. We both make our orders, and for a few moments I feel like I have free reign to look at her while she's talking to the waiter. I'm infatuated with every line and every dimple that forms while she speaks.

"I didn't expect for you to agree to this." It slips out as the server walks away.

"Why?" She tilts her head in question.

"Let's see. You only said two words to me the entire night while we were at your office, and then you changed your coffee route to avoid me. I think it's safe to say that you'd rather not be around me." I'm impressed by how straight-forward I'm being. Truly, I'm not one to beat around the bush, but I've been viewing Santana as some kind of wild animal that could attack or spring away at any moment.

"It's all about you, huh?" Santana rolls her eyes, lets out a puff of air, and stiffens in her chair.

Perhaps being that forthcoming was not the best of ideas.

"I didn't—"

"I agreed to come here because my friends have enough issues with me as of late, so I'd rather not be on shitty terms with their new favorite person on top of everything else." Her tone has lost any semblance of neutrality. It's like a switch has been flipped, and suddenly, we've lost all progress.

_Oh._ My heart drops, and I lightly dig my fingernails into my thighs.

"I didn't realize we were on shitty terms. I think we can manage civility, Santana," I assert. A portion of me wants to lash out, because of how her revelation has wounded me, but I know that doing so won't get me anywhere.

"You're right. We're not on any terms," she clarifies.

I swallow before responding. I remember this. In high school we used to go back and forth like professional insult artists. It was a game to see which one of us could cut the deepest. I can feel the urge rising inside of me again to lash back, but this means too much to me. She means too much to me. At least the idea of who I believe she is does.

"I would like to be," I confess.

Her eyes darken, and I realize that it was not the right thing to say, although it's questionable at this point whether there is anything I could say to diffuse her rapidly inflaming anger.

"And this is based on what exactly? What you know about me from our friends?" she accuses.

I had been wondering how Santana was reacting to my new found closeness with my old friends. I guess this display answers that.

I do feel somewhat guilty for learning so much about her through others rather than from the source, but I haven't earned this reaction from her.

"Not everyone has your resources for discovering information about people, Santana," I retort this time before I can convince myself to respond more maturely.

She inhales, and I watch as her nostrils flare.

"For the record, I didn't fucking _ask_ for that information. I would rather not know." She points her finger down forcefully into the table.

I furrow my brown, no longer sure that we're on the same page. My silence fuels her fire.

"Which one of them told you?" she demands.

I am at a loss as to what she could be talking about. I was referring to how she had known somehow that I'm "out of the closet" so to speak, and how she knew that I was in town long before I saw her walk past my job site on that first day.

"What are you talking about?" I shrug forward with my hands.

"The file. Don't play dumb. We may not know each other anymore, but unless your IQ has dropped significantly, I'm not buying it." She leans towards me in her seat, in order to lower her voice. Her tone is no less harsh.

It stings when she says we don't know each other anymore even though I know that it shouldn't.

"I don't know what you're talking about. Kurt and Sadie told me that you had known that I was in town months before I saw you again. I figured it was—"

"Because you think I was just _so_ overwhelmingly obsessed with you all this time that I kept tabs on you? Is that it?" She tosses her napkin onto the table. There is so much hate burning in her eyes that I honestly don't know what to do with myself.

"No-I—"

"Like I said, I didn't ask to know what I know. Give your daddy dearest a call if you want answers," she hisses.

I bite down hard on my lower lip. I want to scream at her. This isn't fair. She isn't even giving me a chance or an opportunity to have a real conversation with her.

Santana pulls a wad of money out of her clutch, slamming it down on the table before she walks straight out of the restaurant.

I cover my face with my hands, mustering everything I can to fight back the tears that are threatening very persistently to form. I can't say that I expected a peaceful dinner, but I didn't expect things to spin out of control so quickly, especially when I have no clue as to why it happened.

Maybe there is no reaching her now. Maybe it's been too many years and we've both changed too much to be anything to one another again. Maybe the negative feelings she harbors towards me are too great, and she doesn't see a great enough possibility for good here to try.

Whatever the case may be, each beat of my heart seems to throb painfully in my chest. Foolish me, thinking that I could eventually reconnect with her in some form.

The waiter calls for my attention, and I raise my head from my hands to see that our table is now full of food.

"Shit," I mumble.

"Will you still be dining in, miss?" he poses. I'm sure that Santana's exit was noticeable.

"No. Would you get everything wrapped up for me please?" I ask softly, successfully keeping the tremble from my tone.

I'm sure that Brittany or one of my other friends would be more than happy to eat the leftovers. My appetite, on the other hand, is entirely gone.

"Of course." The waiter nods, gathering some of the plates while I return my face to the comfort of my hands.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter IX**

* * *

**Santana's POV**

"Who's picking up Mercedes from the airport?" I ask Sadie from my kneeling position on the floor.

I don't bother to look up from my task. I know exactly what exasperated expression is on Sadie's face. I've been seeing it all too frequently lately.

Rachel slides me the next tub bucket that she has already filled with paint and I pour whatever solution Sadie has us adding, which is apparently supposed to make it so the body paint is quicker to dry and less likely to smear. Given how much sweating is probably going to be happening tonight, it's a smart decision I'm sure.

I have a feeling that Sadie, my friend whose areas of expertise consist of dancing, bartending, and snark, did not come up with this solution on her own. It reeks of Quinn.

"Kurt. He's already on his way there," Sadie humors me.

Kurt and I resolved our issues from the Ashley/restaurant incident weeks ago. I don't always forgive easily. In fact, sometimes I've been known to hold a grudge.

I have enough stress from work without my friends reminding me of how my demeanor has changed, and without them making decisions for me (like who I should be hanging out with, for example).

Sadie, Kurt, and Brittany have all repeatedly asked me if I wanted to hang out with them and Quinn. I've turned them down every time. Kurt should respect that. I think he knows that now; at least, I hope he does. He brought me coffee from my favorite place twice, as well as a pair of killer heels from his infamous closet at work. All of it was appreciated, but it was our heart to heart talk late at my office one night, that warmed me to him again.

He admitted that it was wrong, and that he worries about me. He explained that he recruited Sebastian out of a misplaced sense of desperation. He still earns a side eye from me on occasion, but of course we're okay. We're family.

With my schedule the past couple of years, I haven't been able to see my friends as often as I used to be able to. Now that I refuse to attend some of the group outings, I see them even less than I did before. With me being such a "dark cloud" as Sadie calls it, I can imagine why Quinn's company would be preferable over mine.

"And you confirmed with the caterer?" I make sure, stirring the mixture in the tub with a wooden stick.

Puck returns to our apartment from his second trip to the bachelorette party venue. He's been a good little workhorse today.

"Yes," Sadie grunts.

"And the electronics guy?"

"Yes."

"And the DJ?"

"Yes, Santana. I have this under control. Seriously. Calm your tits," Sadie orders, strutting over to dip a glowstick into my tub, before spreading it down my cheek.

I'm not too bothered by the streak of paint on my cheek since I haven't showered for the party yet, but that doesn't mean I'm going to allow Rachel to get away with her snickering.

Rachel giggles and I playfully glower at her, plunging my fingers into the mixture before reaching over to slide them deliberately down her neck. She leans back in an attempt to avoid the paint, but I predict her movement and hit my target anyway. She squirms under my fingers, forcefully pushes my arm away, but the damage is already done.

I love having her back in town, despite the brevity of her visit. She's made the day far more enjoyable than it would have been otherwise.

I snap the lid of the bucket shut with a loud click before she can exact her revenge.

"She's not going to let any of this go until you let her see your checklist," Rachel cautions to Sadie.

"I don't have one," Sadie shrugs nonchalantly and I am on my feet in seconds.

"What do you mean you don't have one?!" I grit my teeth.

"Fuck me in the ass. Yes, I have a list, but I'm not showing it to you. You need to get your sexy butt in the shower anyway or you won't be ready when the car gets here," Sadie argues.

Before I can articulate a counter argument two small hands are pushing me at my back and in the direction of the bathroom. I kick up the flat of my feet so that I'm literally dragging my heels along the floor. I'm impressed; Rachel makes decent progress with my body despite her lack of upper arm strength.

"We should start feeding her shots or something," Puck suggests, pausing from his bag stuffing duties.

"Keep packing the bags, Cave Dweller," Sadie commands.

"Where do these primitive jokes come from anyway? Do you realize that tonight will be at least the thousandth time where I'm the only straight man in the room? I'm a forward thinker, ya know?" Puck contends, but resumes his bag stuffing.

"There will be other hetero men there," I shoot back at him.

Surprisingly, Rachel has nearly pushed me into the hallway by now. She's breathing hard from the effort, and I'm certainly not making it easy on her, but she's going for it.

"Brittany's dancer friends? Riiight," Puck rolls his entire head in sarcasm.

"See that. That assumption right there is why we can still call you a Neanderthal," I point to him passionately, before finally giving in to Rachel's pressure at my back.

* * *

"Party! Party! Party!" Brittany chants in time with her fist pumps, as I finish leading her up the stairs, through the door, and into the open area of the venue.

She has her lips pushed out and she's bobbing her head from side to side, completely unfazed by the blindfold over her eyes.

We blindfolded Brittany in her apartment, before we took her down to the car. Rachel was all kinds of disappointed that she couldn't go up to Brittany's with us, but I am determined to make this night about Brittany rather than about a "Rachel Berry spotting" by the press or by her Twitter army.

We spent most of the morning here getting everything ready before our paint mixing party at my apartment. I pray that Sadie was able to handle the final preparations here without me.

I never used to be like this. Growing up, I wasn't exactly known for my organizational skills, or my control freak tendencies. I could handle responsibility, don't get me wrong, but I was comfortable with others having responsibilities as well. If anything, I'd laugh as someone fucked up, and criticize them for it afterward. It's this job. I've been conditioned to think a mile a minute. I know I've been on Sadie's last nerve, leading up to this past month or so especially. Brittany gave this task to Sadie, not me, and I could have definitely done a better job of respecting that.

Logically, I know that Sadie is a very capable woman. While she isn't exactly known for her planning abilities, she is smart, charming, and her presence is undoubtedly commanding. I'm sure that we received some of the best deals possible for this event because of her. I also know how deeply she cares for Britt. Sadie wants this night to be a memorable night for Brittany as much as I do. It's just that it isn't an easy thing to turn off.

I wrap my arms around the front of Brittany, pressing my cheek against her warmer, obviously flushed with excitement, cheek.

I wink at Sadie who is standing near the center of the room, and she removes her heels from her feet to quietly disappear along with the others.

Brittany forces me into a swaying motion with her; she's visibly impatient to discover just what we have in store.

Once Sadie has made herself scarce, I untie the dark leather from around my friend's eyes.

I step around her to observe her expression. To her, she's looking at a predominantly empty warehouse-looking space, with exposed ceilings and concrete floors.

She scrunches her eyebrows, rotating her head to look at me. She doesn't look upset, merely confused.

I smile broadly at her, as all of the lights blink off one by one.

"Just watch," I guide her in the dark.

Multi-colored lights, including black lights begin spinning from the ceiling, and all of the guests flood into the open space. It's a small crowd, roughly thirty of her closest people, who were able to be here early enough to surprise her. Some of them have already changed into the white outfits for the night. Many of them have forgone shirts and shorts and gone the swimsuit/underwear route instead.

The cocktail waiters and waitresses already have their bodies predominantly adorned with the fluorescent paint. Save for some pasties, and tiny g-strings, they're nude otherwise.

The DJ with a couple helpers, pushes her equipment into the room, and along the far wall to get started. A few other party favor and appetizer tables are pushed out behind her.

I can't clearly see Brittany's smile amongst the spinning lights, but I can sure as hell feel it.

Staff included, everyone in the room screams in unison, "It's Brittany, Bitch!"

The mass of Brittany's loved ones clap and howl, and she skips into the midst of them and away from me.

Puck slaps my back, as I take a moment to absorb our friend's bliss.

"You done good, babe," he compliments.

"Sadie did this," I correct, as he hugs me into his side.

"It's okay to take a little credit sometimes." He kisses the top of my head.

"It's not about credit. Drinks first, and then we fetch Brittany to get her changed," I instruct, and we head in the direction of the nearest table.

* * *

Puck has his hand around my hip as we utilize our teamwork skills to attempt to make our most sober saunter into the bar area. I'm on a dancing and alcohol mixture high, and it takes my eyes a minute to adjust to the far better lit space. Brittany, and others, have been shoving every drink down my throat since we arrived. Unlike my fellow riders, I only had one glass of champagne in the car, but I definitely think I have caught up to the rest of them by this point. The alcohol is surely a good thing, because I had forgotten how intimidating it is to dance in a crowd that primarily consists of professional dancers. My buzz does wonders for my self-consciousness.

"I bought this cologne. Good choice," I mumble into Puck's shoulder, and we both squint to adjust to the light. He's sweaty, but thanks to me, he still smells nice.

His shirt is off, he's already been partially painted by someone. I'm not sure who did it, but he's mostly covered in a randomly colored mixture of scattered streaks and a handful of lewd drawings. Surely, his painter was someone without any artistic talent, but that's fine. No one needs to be Mona Lisa here. I always thought that bitch looked real smug, anyhow.

I changed into the white paint shorts hours ago, and decided, like many others, to go without a shirt. The dance area is fucking hot, and my bikini top is much more comfortable. I haven't been painted yet, so the only paint on my body is the sporadic smatterings that have been transferred from those who I have danced with or embraced so far tonight.

"Being the only straight man here, wearing this cologne with this body is like fishing with dynamite," he boasts smugly.

I roll my eyes at his straight man comment. There are plenty of other straight men present at the party tonight. Sure they may be outnumbered by straight girls and queer people, but they're definitely here.

"Why are you hanging out with me then?" I pose, leaning against an empty stool by the bar. It's becoming much easier to see now that my eyes are acclimating.

"Because you're my favorite girl, even if you don't put out," he explains, and I know that he added the second part only to negate some of the cheesiness.

I poke his shoulder, and he feigns as if he's been forcefully pushed, taking a fake stumble back. I take note of the layers of glow sticks around his neck. A couple weeks ago when we purchased all of them he made a side comment about how he had loved glow sticks when he was a first grader. I not so gently reminded him that this is about what Brittany would want, not him. I have to remember to tease him about that now that he's rocking so many of the glow sticks.

"You're drunk," I observe, but the sides of my mouth hurt from smiling. It's nice to hear that even after all the shit that has happened the past couple years, Puck still cares about me as much as he does.

I peer at the lights above to prevent myself from getting choked up at the thought. I don't want to be the weepy drunk. _No, ma'am._

"Doesn't make it any less true, sweet cheeks," he contends.

I open my mouth to attempt to drunkenly express how much he means to me, when a shriller version of Rachel Berry's usual voice, sends my head twisting.

"You've always been jealous of me, Mercedes. I'm not going to apologize because I'm successful and you're spending your prime years for stardom belting 'oos' and ahhs' behind someone with far less talent than yourself!" Rachel's body shakes with her stinging words.

I motion for Puck to stay, knowing that more people mean more attention and we surely do not want to attract more attention to the situation. He signals his understanding silently to me and I cross to the far side of the bar where my two friends are arguing so heatedly.

At least Rachel said that Mercedes is more talented than the woman she sings for. I mean, that's kinda a compliment, right?

"I would say that this fame of yours has gone to your head, but you've always had tons more ego than you've had sense. I'm working hard for my dream. Can you say the same or have you resigned yourself to selling out for movies that market to 12-year-old white girls? The generic toilet paper I buy has better reviews than your last film does," Mercedes fires back.

Rachel visibly flinches with each verbal blow that she receives, and it takes every ounce of my self-control (which is not as formidable as usual thanks to the alcohol), to refrain from joining in on the argument. I know how self-conscious Rachel is about her movie career, and how desperate she is to get back to acting and singing on stages. They've always been competitors, sure, but Rachel is far more fragile than Mercedes is.

Despite my pressing inclination to defend Rachel, I'm worried about people overhearing us. Every guest was forced to sign a confidentiality agreement in order to attend, since there are a handful of famous and influential people here, but those agreements don't always stop people from blabbing anyhow.

"Hey, you two, into the curtains. Now!" I direct, glaring at Mercedes until she leads the way down the corridor.

She slides the first curtain open, wrinkling her face in disgust at whatever she finds there before moving down to check the following curtain.

She throws the cloth dramatically to the side, and struts inside; apparently this one is all clear. Rachel and I head in behind her.

These curtained rooms remind me of the private dance areas at strip clubs. There's an L shaped couch and a sizable ottoman in the center of the room.

"What the hell is going on here?" I demand to know.

"Mercedes has downed half the bar, that's what's going on here." Rachel flips her hand up in contempt.

"I'm not even half as drunk as you are pathetic," Mercedes insults with a barely noticeable slur to her words.

"Mercedes," I warn.

Rachel takes an unquestionably hostile step towards Mercedes. She is definitely a small pint, but no one could claim that Rachel isn't a brave little thing.

"You want to slap someone, you scrawny Barbra Streisand wannabe? Go 'head. I'll knock your overrated bony ass to the floor. And if you ever lay a hand on Quinn again I'll tear every tacky extension out of your conceited head," Mercedes threatens, matching Rachel step for step until I have to press myself between the two women.

_Is this how this argument started? Over Quinn?_

It's nearly impossible to keep my temper in check when I know how many tears Rachel will shed over this later.

"No one is slapping anyone. Rachel sit down. Mercedes take a walk," I command.

Rachel sits down as she was told, but Mercedes remains in the room, turning her attention on me.

"You're not much better. Leave a girl at a restaurant, because you'd rather throw a fit than listen to what someone has to say. Y'all act like there's only one side to this story." Mercedes' head swings to the side. I'm close enough to see the droplets of sweat spattered along her upper lip.

It was not my intention to lose my temper on Quinn like I did. But, I can't stand the thought that she thinks that I've been obsessed with her, and lost without her all these years. Maybe that isn't what she meant, but it sure as hell sounded like it. She already knows that my friends expect her to be the answer to my problems. That notion alone is infuriating.

I should have never agreed to dinner with her in the first place. I'm a ball of turmoil when it comes to her. I don't know why, and I've honestly done everything I can to avoid figuring it out. But, maybe it's time.

Maybe I need to start fitting counseling into my chaotic schedule. I've been before. The first time was shortly after the breakup with Quinn when my friends gave me a mini-intervention. To be fair, I don't think I would have gone on my own. It was much easier for me to make the decision to go to counseling the second time around, after my grandmother died and I found out that was banned from the funeral.

I'm not sure why it's easier to talk to a stranger sometimes than my friends. Perhaps it's because my friends overreact to everything I reveal to them.

"Interesting point to make when you've only heard hers," I combat with a steady voice.

I have never once come to Mercedes with anything regarding Quinn. Puck called her, two days or so after he arrived to NYC for the aftermath of the breakup. I could hear him arguing with Mercedes over the sound of the ridiculous Smash TV show marathon that Rachel had been forcing me to watch. Later that day, I overheard him tell Rachel when she was interrogating him that Mercedes said that Quinn was okay, but we weren't supposed to attempt to contact her.

"I never prevented you from sharing yours, that's the difference," Mercedes debates.

Out of my peripheral vision, I can see Rachel rising from her seat, but I gesture for her to remain seated. This argument is obviously about Quinn and me. I don't want Rachel to be targeted for further insult merely because Mercedes has some issue with how she _thinks_ I've treated Quinn.

I would never have gone to Mercedes with my side of things, anyway. Mercedes was Quinn's best friend. After the break up, I was relieved to find that Mercedes was still in contact with Quinn. I would never think of jeopardizing their relationship. Quinn deserved to have a confidant all her own, and Mercedes was the one Quinn chose in the end.

"Who am I stopping, Mercedes? Really? She's the one who dropped off the face of the earth for everyone but you. And now she's back, and I've done _nothing_ to discourage anyone from seeing her or listening to 'her side' of things," I defend. I can't believe I'm saying so much. It must be the alcohol.

"Wake the hell up, Santana! _You're_ the one who is refusing to hear her, and _you're_ the one who matters," Mercedes spells out, pointing at me with the entirety of her hand.

"What could she possibly have to say that would make any difference? It _won't_ change that she left. It _won't_ change that she didn't contact me for over seven fucking years. And it sure as hell _won't_ change the fact that she only chose to find us again because it was convenient," I scowl.

I register that Rachel's hand is in mine, but I don't remember detecting her movement from the couch. I don't ask her to sit back down. She's providing a silent comfort, and much needed comfort, with her simple gesture.

"Convenient? Brave is what it was, Santana. Are you so stuck swimming 'round in your own pool of self-pity that you can't see how scary that must have been for her?"

"Scary like coming out of the closet, 'Cedes? Because fuck, once she did that she sure didn't waste _any_ time, now did she?"

_Ugh._ I hate that I said that. I hate that I exposed that vulnerability to Mercedes. I hate that Quinn will probably know that tidbit by tomorrow.

"Is that your problem? That she dated women after you? I knew you were a little loco, but that is straight up Looney Bin material," Mercedes attacks.

Rachel squeezes my hand firmly. I know that she's probably struggling to stay out of this argument, but I'm grateful that she's fighting that urge.

"Thank you, Dr. Jones. What would I ever do without you?" I roll my eyes dramatically.

I sense the movement of the curtain behind us.

"What the hell is this? I could hear you cats scratching at each other from the bar. For a singer, Mercedes, you really need to get to workin' on your volume control," Sadie announces her arrival.

Mercedes doesn't shift her eyes even a centimeter from mine. Her jaw hardens.

"You wanna know somethin', Miss Shady Ass Workaholic? I'm glad that you've been a stubborn ass bitch, because you don't deserve to have her in your life," Mercedes twists the knife that she inserted earlier somewhere around her self-pity comment.

"Whoa, watch it, Wheezy. As much as I love our MerSadie bond, I gotta say, you're stepping over a line," Sadie chastises, and Mercedes' eyes finally leave mine.

"What do you know? You've been chummy with Quinn for about five whole seconds," Mercedes rotates to Sadie.

"What do I know? Let's start with three things. Number one, I know Santana, and she deserves whatever the hell she wants; number two, I know that you're drunk; and, number three, I know that tonight is about Brittany and she would be devastated if she knew that some of the people that she loves most in the world are hidden away here trying to hurt each other rather than having fun at her party," Sadie articulates.

It hits me hard that I've allowed myself to get lost in an argument with Mercedes during Brittany's night. I'm emotionally drained and we have hours left to go.

Mercedes huffs loudly, dismissing herself, and striding melodramatically out of the curtain area.

I release Rachel's hand, and collapse backwards onto the couch.

I gaze up at Sadie from my new position. The last time I saw her, she was still wearing the white paint shorts. Now she's clad in only a swimsuit, and she has paint _everywhere_.

I squint my eyes, finding a reason to smile for the first time since Puck and I entered the bar area.

"Are those phone numbers?" I mumble up at her in disbelief.

I don't know whether I'm amused, or impressed, or both. _Eh, probably both. _

"You like them?" she grins, spinning around for me to get the full view. I'm 90% sure that she has a phone number on each ass cheek.

"When did you become the peacekeeper?" Rachel leans down to analyze one of the numbers on Sadie's side, before joining me on the couch.

"Somewhere around the time when all of yous lost your marbles, I suppose," Sadie remarks affectionately.

"Thanks for picking up our slack, Gingy," I express sincerely.

"Mercedes was standing up for her girl, San, and she doesn't know you like we do," Sadie attempts to assuage whatever feelings my altercation with Mercedes brought up.

"Is that why you conspired behind my back to fix me, Sadie?" I question from beneath my eyelashes.

"I said I was sorry for that, but do you really think we would go to all that effort for someone who wasn't worthwhile?" She fondly snaps one of her pink glow bracelets around my wrist.

She has a point.

However, it's laughable how serious her expression is when she's standing in front of me in a bikini covered in body paint.

I'm also too drunk for this conversation.

"I'm going to go find, Britt. She's been talking non-stop about painting you for the past half hour, Santana. Meet us over there?" Sadie requests, when I don't answer her previous question.

"Sure. We'll be over there in a minute," I accept offering Sadie a half-hearted smile before she exits the room.

"You're a gutsy thing, but you're not exactly the person I would want on my tag team if I needed someone to tag out to in a fight," I clap Rachel's thigh with my hand, resting it there after I make contact. She has even less paint on her than I do, and unlike me, she opted for the paint shorts as well as the shirt.

"You should be well aware by now that I understand about as little about your kung fu fighting jargon as you understand about my references to the late and great Broadway producers, but if there was a compliment disguised in there somewhere I thank you," she whispers the last part, and my head turns instinctively in concern.

She doesn't look like the Tony nominated Broadway diva. She looks like a woman who has been stripped naked and forced to listen to someone list off her every flaw.

"Are you okay?"I question softly, flattening down the one static hair that threatens to besmirch her otherwise flawless hair.

Her hand moves to cover mine on her thigh. I watch her sorrow filled brown eyes trail down to our hands.

"I don't _hate_, Quinn," she professes randomly.

I don't want to talk about Quinn. I barely ever see the girl. She should not be a recurring topic of conversation like she is.

"That doesn't answer my question," I gently remind her.

I can see sophomore year of high school Rachel in her eyes. The girl who was so sure of what she wanted, who was so talented, but who was beyond insecure about whether people liked her. My sophomore year counterpart used to treat moments like this how a lion reacts to the unprotected neck of zebra.

That instinct has vanished since then. These days, I only wish I could convince her that while her moments of overbearing confidence are annoying as fuck, there is absolutely no reason why she should _ever_ feel not good enough.

"What if there was something that you've always wanted, but you couldn't have? Your chances look depressingly bleak, but you never really give up because of how very badly you want it, you know? And then there's this other person who had this very thing that you've always wanted, and they go and throw it away like it isn't the most spectacular and special thing in the whole world." Rachel raises moist eyes to meet mine.

_Oh, fuck._

It's been a long time since Rachel and I have had a conversation like this. I know that she alludes to it every so often, dropping hints here and there, and we undoubtedly have a flirtatious relationship. And I do what I can to be careful, but I know she would only be more hurt if I were to act differently towards her because of it. I'm positive that she would feel even more rejected than she already does.

Sometimes when she's intoxicated like she is now, she will ask me about the girls I sleep with; what they look like, how they act, what attracts me to them. It's unhealthy, I know that.

I wish I could just honestly tell her that I'm not attracted to her. I think that would be easier for her to understand, and maybe she would be able to move on. But, I can't lie to her. I _am_ attracted to her. Years ago, I came to terms with my attraction to the girl I used to not so affectionately refer to as "Man Hands".

She has never spoken about this with such intensity before. It moves me greatly that someone like her could feel that way about me.

"Rach-I-"

I'm not sure what words are appropriate. _I wish you didn't feel that way_ sounds wrong on so many levels. Who am I to wish her feelings away? Would she know it is because I want her to be happy and not because of the guilt I harbor because of it? Would she be able to look past her insecurity and understand that I would rather have her in my bed than some random girl that I meet at a bar? Would she believe that I care about her too much to offer her _anything_ less than someone who feels _everything_ for her could?

"Let me finish, Santana. Please? Since I have two gay dads any resistance I would face if I had to come out would be wholly career related, but you know, _you know_, how much my career means to me. Being with you is the one thing that I would risk it all for, but fuck me if it wouldn't be worth it. I can't even begin to conceptualize being anything but blissfully proud to be yours," she speaks with such breathtaking sincerity that I can literally feel something twisting and tearing in my chest.

She laces her fingers through mine, reaching with her other hand to grasp at the nape of my neck, shepherding me until my forehead rests against hers.

"I'm the one who broke up with her." I'm not sure why I decide that it's especially relevant to say that now. I suppose it's easier to respond by clarifying that Quinn didn't throw me away, and that she was taking a risk merely by being with me, out or otherwise, rather than address the gravity of Rachel's feelings for me. That's really saying something since I have such a distaste for talking about Quinn in general.

"I know, and I'm biased, but I find myself utterly unable to sympathize with her. Once she sorted her sexuality issues out, how could she do anything but find you again? But I can't hate her for wanting to know you now. How hypocritical would that be? I'm just _so_ angry," she breathes against my lips. Her breath feels hot, burning with the anger that she feels compelled to express. In contrast, her breath smells like the sweet gummy bear shots that have been passed around by the waitstaff all evening.

A tear splashes onto my collarbone. I lean back from her with a frown, brushing her tears away with my thumbs and the back of my hands until they stop falling.

I earn a laugh from her when I wipe all of the moisture from my hands on her shirt without pretense.

"What could I have done differently? I hate how much I've hurt you, whereas you've been the most amazing friend to me," I probe desperately, doing what I can to fix her smudged eye makeup with my pinky fingers.

She laughs again, only this laugh is unexpected, and rings of a "you're ridiculous" sentiment.

"What?" I question. I genuinely want to know what I could have done to prevent this pain, these tears.

"You didn't charm me into loving you, Santana. This wasn't a conscious choice on your part, just as I didn't make the choice to fall so deeply for someone whose heart inexplicably belongs to someone else. To know you is to love you. Ha. Wow. I think I just figured out why Quinn couldn't have you in her life after you broke up." she sighs, palming her forehead, almost swatting my hand when she does so.

A painful tingly panic rises in my throat at her words. The thought that Rachel could disappear on me like Quinn did dismantles me in a way that I don't believe that any other fear can. I can't lose her.

"Santana. I would _never_ do that to you. Do you understand?" My expression must have given me away, because her eyes on mine and her hand on my face are imploring me to accept the veracity of her words.

"I wouldn't blame you." Apparently, it's my turn to come close to tears. I can't mirror her eye contact right now. I've heard similar promises before.

"In high school I literally counted every time you said anything to me that wasn't saddled with an insult. Even _move_ or _are you going to hand me the sheet music or what? _made the cut. I didn't revel in those moments because of _who_ you were, it was because of _what_ you were and what you represented. You and Quinn were the most popular girls in school, and being accepted by you meant something," she exaggerates her hand gestures to illustrate her explanation.

"Frankly, I did whatever I could to befriend you purely for the sake of my own self-esteem. But I'm not that 16-year-old girl anymore, Santana. You're not the cheerleading Captain, and I'm not the girl voted most likely to get slushied. I grew to know you and you were my friend because of _who_ I knew you to be,"she continues.

"So what if I'm not your _one?_ That only means that one day we're going to laugh about this when you're the drunk Maid of Honor at _my_ bachelorette party. I don't believe in walking away from amazing people who have changed my life for the better. Regardless of who has their heart,"she concludes with a smile and I am simply overwhelmed by relief at her words.

"She does _not_ have my heart, for the record," I contest. There's no way. It's been too long, and I'm sick and tired of people thinking it.

"Then who does? Because it sure as sunshine isn't under your rib cage." She presses a finger into my chest, regarding me with a sad smile.

"Sure as sunshine? Did you pick that up in Wyoming?" I tease, and I'm rewarded with a soft chuckle.

"Quite possibly, but you're not getting around this one," she claims.

I inhale deeply.

"I'm not in love with her. That would be absolutely insane, not to mention ridiculous," I spit bitterly.

It doesn't appear to provide her with any form of solace. Quite the contrary, actually.

"Then may I ask why you can't feel that way about me? Am I not pretty enough?" The moisture has returned to her eyes.

"You've _got_ to be kidding me. There are thousands of websites, _at least_, that are exclusively dedicated to how very pretty you are," I assert emphatically. _How does she not see it?_

I faintly recognize just how much our drunk and emotional conversation is erratically jumping all over the place.

"I guess I'd rather _she_ was the problem than have the problem be with _me_." There's no humor in her subsequent laugh this time.

"There's _nothing_ wrong with you. I think you're beautiful, Rach," I force eye contact. I only wish she believed me.

"Ugh, I feel like such the best friend cinema cliché right now. I'm Duckie from Pretty in Pink!" she sighs in almost comical exasperation, knocking her head back.

"You're not the supporting character type, and your style is much better than his was. High school you's style though, not so much." I nudge her with my shoulder.

"Yes, I know. You mocked me relentlessly for my wardrobe," she peers down at her hands, fiddling with them in her lap.

"_So_ many animal sweaters," I emphasize, and she cracks a small smile. She closes her eyes, allowing her head to rest behind her.

"I remember. They love showing pictures of them in every "Before They Were Famous" special that airs," she laments.

I wait patiently for her eyes to open before I say anything else. My jokes aren't having much impact on the severity of her mood. Maybe if I had material aside from poking fun at Rachel, I'd be doing a better job.

I don't want her to think that I'm laughing all of this off, because I'm not. Her feelings do matter to me, and I appreciate how vulnerable she's making herself when I continuously struggle to do the same with my own emotions.

Eventually, her eyes slide open. They're more captivating than usual, shining with her pain.

"I could be happy with you. I know I could be. But I'd be doing you an injustice, Rachel. You deserve every ounce of the cheesy fucking fairy tale," I urge her to believe me.

"So you keep telling me," she exhales slowly without breaking eye contact.

"You do," I swear.

I reach for her cheek, and she angles her head into my touch before I even make contact with her skin. I can feel the vibration of her lower lip trembling from the skin beneath my hand.

"How pathetic would it be if I asked you to kiss me right now?" she pleads, and her lips part in emotion as she exposes herself to me once again.

She might as well be saying_ I know you don't feel for me as I feel for you, but give me this one thing_.

After all she has said tonight, I absolutely cannot bring myself to reject her.

I lean into her, my eyes flickering down to her mouth.

Her lips are still glistening from her tears, and I can smell the apple mango lip gloss that she insists on wearing whenever she doesn't have to be "public ready".

I watch her eyelids flutter close, just before mine follow suit. Her breath hits my lips in an anticipatory puff.

I want to focus entirely on her. I want to fully give her this moment. I don't want her to be able to sense that there is this demanding sadness that threatens to anchor me down, swallowing me whole.

I center my thoughts, an acquired skill from my job, and my lips instigate a feather light kiss upon hers.

We share an instant that lasts without a single inhale between us, until she breaks it, surging forward and against me.

My gentle approach ceases to satisfy her, and a small hand twists and tangles in my hair, begging for my absolute awareness, my unwavering presence in this moment.

I give her everything I have to give as our mouths part in synchronization.

The last shot I took was all liquor and no chaser, and I'm distinctly aware of the contrast between our night's beverages.

This kiss is literally bittersweet on my tongue. It's the perfect descriptor.

Kissing her is like starting a fire. It sparks instantaneously and when I release myself into it, desire flares up within me, licking dangerously along my insides.

_Can she feel how I want her?_

_Should it truly matter that I believe that I've felt a more powerful, more overwhelming fire years ago?_

Her sigh is intoxicating in my mouth, pleading with me to choose this, to choose her, to not deny myself this feeling, merely because I think she deserves better.

It's tempting, more so now than it's ever been. I want to swing my leg over hers, straddle her fucking lap, and describe to her in graphic detail exactly what we're going to do when we return to my apartment tonight.

But, I don't.

Instead, I listen to the voice in my head that has ensured that this has happened only one other time in the past eight years. Because believe me, I've wanted it many times before.

I gradually shallow the kiss, before pressing my lips to hers a final two times. I intertwine my fingers with those of hers that have enticingly discovered the muscles of my stomach.

We breathe together and my chest aches from the effort to refrain from kissing her again, and from the nagging despair of our predicament.

"Tha-" Rachel speaks, while using the couch to leverage herself into a standing position.

"That better not be a thank you that's coming out of your mouth, Berry," I caution without any real bite. It's such a Rachel thing to do really, thanking someone for a kiss.

"I'll refrain, but I suddenly am wondering, after all of these years, why you have a dozen nicknames for everybody, and I haven't given you a single one," she shakes her head, holding out her hand for me to take in a theatrical display.

I'm relieved that she's separated herself from me. Keeping my lips away from hers seems much more achievable now. I take her hand, although she doesn't provide me with much assistance in my shift off of the couch.

It's been a crazy roller coaster of a conversation, but I feel genuinely calm. I have this unexpected, but welcome, sense of certainty that Rachel and I are going to be okay.

The serene and playful smile she shows me, demonstrates to me that she feels the same.

"That's because there's only one Santana Lopez," I gesture to the ceiling, in jest with my pointer finger, while leading us out of the curtained area.

"Don't I know it," Rachel agrees with a far more light-hearted laugh than I would have expected after everything.

"Let's go get our body painting on," I propose, and we head in the proper direction to do just that.

* * *

**A/N: I know I don't usually put my author's notes at the bottom here, but I have a reason for it. Basically, I didn't want to spoil this chapter by saying what I wanted to say. **

**If you were worried or wondering, there will be plenty more of the bachelorette party in the next chapter. The night isn't over. Additionally, we will be seeing Quinn :). **

**Thank you for all of the wonderful feedback for the last chapter, and as always, thank you to my beautiful beta ckeller48. **


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter X**

**A/N: Holy moly I received a crazy amount of feedback for the last chapter! Some of you (mostly guest users) had some questions or concerns which I believe can be easily answered in the previous chapter. For those of you who are still confused or concerned, feel free to shoot me a PM. I'll be more than happy to clear anything up. **

** I'm touched by the passion and dedication of my readers. I appreciate every second that you all take to leave me feedback.**

**I'd like to give my beta, ckeller48, another thank you for keeping me sane during some of the insanity. So thanks, buddy :). **

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

I plop down in frustration onto the steps of what I think is either a bank or a school of some sort. I've obviously made the decision to go to Brittany's bachelorette party, which is why I'm within a block of the venue, and yet, here I am on the steps of an unknown building instead.

I'm fortunate enough to not be someone who is afflicted with social anxiety. At least, not usually. A black light party is just honestly not my scene, and I can definitely think of multiple stunts that I used to watch on Fear Factor that I would rather do than see Santana tonight.

My toes turn to face each other in a manifestation of my annoyance. I had wanted to be the one to pick up Mercedes from the airport, but unfortunately, I had a photography shoot all day that I had scheduled months ago. I'm sure that if she were here I'd be feeling much more confident about walking into the party.

**Where you be, baby girl?**

It's the fourth text message I've received from Mercedes since the party reportedly started. I told her I was running late, which is the truth, even if I was running late because I was intentionally dragging my heels.

**I'm down the street. I don't want to do this.**

I text back my admission, and mindlessly scroll through the other text messages I've received from today.

I scan over my texts from Sadie first:

**I hope you're ready to drink, Blondie!**

**Why haven't I seen your face yet? Don't fret, I won't let Diva Dingle Berry do any more damage to that pretty face of yours.**

**Britt has been asking about you since we got here. Do I need to tell her that you're ditching or are you going to get your ass on over here?**

Before moving to my texts from Brittany:

**Where are you?**

**Quinn? :(**

**You coming?**

Lastly, I read through Kurt's once again:

**I'm intoxicated.**

**I'm under the influence of alcohol, but I believe I saw Puck bumping and grinding with another guy.**

**Come dance!**

I stand up abruptly, realizing how ridiculous I'm being. I can't let Brittany down, and I sure as hell want to see my friends. After my "dinner" with Santana, I couldn't really care less about seeing Puck or Rachel. Santana's the one that I'm not looking forward to seeing, but I'm not going to allow that to control my decisions. I'm an adult, and I can handle this.

"Name?" The doorman asks upon my approach.

"Quinn Fabray."

He glances down at his screen to match my face with the picture that's assigned to my name.

"The bride-to-be has hopped down here twice to see if you'd arrived. She keeps forgetting that my list updates to every staff and security person's device upstairs."

The doorman appears amused rather than annoyed. I don't blame him. Brittany charms people rather easily.

"I won't keep her waiting any longer then."

"Go ahead. Follow the signs."

I follow the signs through a corridor and up the stairs before I'm met by another suited security man standing by the door. He listens to something in his earpiece before opening the door to gesture me inside.

Sadie had told me what the party was going to be like, but I'm not at all prepared for the scene before me.

It's completely dark save for fluorescent paint glowing on the pulsing bodies, the multi-colored lights spinning from the ceiling, and the illuminated DJ booth.

It's not overwhelmingly packed as a club would be; there probably aren't more than forty people dancing, but there isn't an obvious way of finding my friends.

"Shot?" A woman shouts to me over the noise. I'm relatively sure that she isn't wearing any clothing. She's seemingly only covered by paint.

I take a shot from her tray and toss it back before placing the empty cup back on the tray. It tastes like a gummy bear. It has Brittany written all over it.

"How do I get to the areas with more light?" I ask her, and she gestures to the right side of the room with her head.

Taking her direction, I happen upon a lounge area with a sizable bar. There are only a handful of people in the room, mostly unpainted folk, although my eyes eventually land on a familiar broad shouldered painted figure at the bar. He's chatting with a woman that I've never seen before.

Without another thought, I begin walking into the next room.

"Quinn," Puck utters from behind me.

I face him, deciding that ignoring the first familiar person probably isn't a great way to start the night.

"I come in peace. Sadie threatened to stab me with her stiletto in the taint if I say one cross word to you," he claims, holding up both of his hands.

I'm pretty sure he has some sort of disfigured genitalia painted on his chest, and although I'm sorely out of practice, I'm also relatively sure that he's had more than his share to drink.

"What do you want, Puck?" I snap.

"Could we talk?" he requests, wisely keeping a significant amount of space between the two of us.

"That depends, are we going to talk or are you going to yell?" I cock an eyebrow in displeasure.

"Alright, I deserve that. Let me buy you a drink?" he offers.

"I thought it was an open bar," I respond derisively.

"I'll pick up the tip," he persists, giving me an aged version of the puppy dog look that I remember so well.

"Vodka Cran, please," I give in; apparently that look still has some degree of power over me.

Puck advances towards the bar, and I sit down in an empty booth nestled in the corner.

"Thanks," I mumble as he sets the drink down in front of me upon his return.

He props his elbow onto the table, and sloppily rests his chin on his closed fist. I gesture for him to get a move on with whatever this is, but it takes a few seconds for him to get started anyway.

"It was wrong of me to come at 'cha like I did that night at the bar. It wasn't cool, and I'm sorry," he eventually spits out.

I'm not usually one to sneer at an apology but this one is multiple months late.

"Is that it?"

"It doesn't mean a lick to you I'm sure, but better than leaving it unsaid, yeah?" He makes a dejected motion with his shoulders.

"That's true. Do you know where Brittany or Mercedes are?" I scan the room, wondering if Puck is even going to remember this conversation tomorrow.

"I haven't seen Brittany in a while, but last I saw Mercedes she was in the second curtain room on the right ahead there. Things were heated between her and Rachel and Santana, so you may not want to go in," he advises, and I drain the small cup before I slide out of the booth.

If the three of them are arguing, I can guess what the subject matter is. Mercedes is very protective over me. I sure as hell am not going to leave her in there by herself, not after everything she has done for me.

I move into the corridor without bothering to say goodbye to Puck. Stopping in front of the second curtain, I position my ear near the fabric. I don't hear anything save for some possibly muffled movement. Just to be safe I peel the side of the curtain open a smidge, to survey the room. There is no Mercedes to be found. Instead, there are two women, who are clearly engaged in what could only be construed as an intimately passionate kiss. In shock, I abruptly release the piece of fabric that I'm holding, and briskly walk in the opposite direction.

Miraculously, I stumble upon a bathroom, and I push my way into an open stall to catch my breath.

_Oh my god. Shit. Fuck. Jesus Christ. Jesus Fucking Christ._

That was Santana and Rachel in there. _Kissing_. And not just like "you're pretty and I'm pretty so let's make out 'cause we're drunk" kissing. Whatever was going on in there was not messing around. It was palpable.

Why didn't anyone tell me that those two were together or whatever that was?

Okay, to be fair, I guess it isn't any of my business for one. Even if it was, it's possible that no one else knows. It's fashionable for celebrities to be pro LGBT rights these days, but if not full on career suicide, it's usually at least a career maiming for those whose same sex relationships are made public.

And with that thought, I'm flushed with a stomach clenching desire to throw up. Santana wasn't willing to be in a secret relationship with me at age 18, but she's willing to do it for Rachel now? It hurts far more than it should after all this time.

Maybe fame and success are better excuses according to Santana than "I won't be able to pay for school, and my family will disown me." If so, she's changed even more than I thought she had.

_I'm done._

I'm not going to make any more attempts to reconnect with someone who clearly has no interest in doing so, and who is holding a grudge against me for something that happened when we were barely out of high school.

It's insane that I actually give two shits that she's in that room kissing another woman like she loves her in the first place.

_Well, I'm done caring._

I gather my composure, and I depart the restroom as quickly as I came in.

The next area I find consists of white walls and floors splattered in paint, and a giggling Sadie and Brittany. Sadie is painting over someone else's artistry on Brittany's back. Given what I remember of their relationship in high school, their closeness remains strange to me.

There are six others in the room, not counting the staff, but Brittany is the first to notice my presence.

"You're here! Yay!" she squeals, practically knocking me over with her hug.

I don't squeeze her quite as tightly as she squeezes me, but it's nice to embrace someone after what I just witnessed.

"She's a person, not a doll, Britt-Britt, let her breathe," Sadie guides, hugging me after Brittany releases me.

"Quinn's an artist like my Marley, but she does paint not pastries," Brittany introduces me to the other people in the room, who aren't paying even the least amount of attention.

"Do you have any personal items you would like us to hold for you, miss?" one of the painted nudist staff offers me. She explains how I can go about retrieving the items that I leave, as I hand her my phone and ID. She snaps a picture of me before placing my things into a marked cubby behind her.

"Strip, Quinn. Strip!" Brittany urges.

"Do you want a shirt or shorts? If neither, you can leave your garments with your other belongings," the woman explains.

I'm by no means eager to be topless around a bunch of sculpted dancer bodies. They all have abs for days. But I know that if I don't at least go without a shirt, that Brittany will pout and plead with me until I relent. I save her the effort, since it is her party and I'll end up giving in anyway, and I request the shorts.

"You have the stomach of a 17-year-old," Sadie whistles as soon as I hand my top over to the painted woman, and admittedly, it makes me feel a shade more comfortable.

"No shirts allowed!" Brittany demands to someone behind me.

I glance over my shoulder to see a hand-holding Rachel and Santana. I avert my eyes immediately, ignoring the repeated clench of my stomach.

"I am _not_ walking around here in a bikini," Rachel protests. She's obviously the one Brittany's command is directed towards. I'm all too aware of how shirtless Santana is.

"Goodness gracious, do any of you do anything other than work out?" Kurt enters the room on the opposite side from which I did, and he's pretty well covered in paint. He also made the decision to keep his torso clothed.

"Exactly why I'm wearing the shirt," Rachel cites, tugging at the white material to demonstrate.

"You're the one with the personal trainer, Berry, and we all know what is under there anyway. We're the ones who stopped you from drunkenly running into the street topless when we were in Tampa, remember?" Sadie reminds her.

"That was three years ago!" Rachel objects.

"Your body is tight, Rach, but keep your shirt on if you're going to be weird about it," Santana soothes.

_Yeah, I'm sure you're well aware of just how tight her body is._

_Okay, so this whole not caring thing is obviously going to be a process. That's fine._

Kurt greets me with a hug as well, and once we've parted I twist around so that my back is not awkwardly facing anyone. I don't _want_ to have a full view of the Rachel and Santana show, but I want my discomfort to be noticeable even less.

"This defies logic. When do you have the time?" Kurt compliments Santana's unarguably ripped stomach. It's a very good question, actually.

_Fuck_, I've had my mouth on every inch of those abs. I think there may even be new definition lines that weren't there in high school, but I'm not going to stare long enough to find out.

I look over to see Sadie gathering squeeze bottles from one of the tables, just as a strong hand pushes me forward and directly into Santana's vicinity. I quickly identify the pusher as Brittany, when her hand slides down to my lower back and she steps beside Santana and me.

"Hey guys. This is my bachelorette party which means I have like 1,423 times the power that I would normally have on my birthday. Like, I could make you two get married if I wanted, but I won't because people should really be consensual to that. But hey, you really shouldn't blame me if a stork builds a nest on the roofs of your buildings sometime soon, because I will have had _nothing_ to do with that," Brittany rambles, placing a hand on Santana's back as well.

"Where ya going with this, B?" Santana doesn't appear to be amused, her eyes briefly flickering over to Rachel as Rachel follows Kurt over to the bin area. _Is she unable to pay anyone else attention besides Rachel for even two seconds?_

"Hush. This is the Brittany show, and you two are not going to keep acting like the Joker and Batman, because Quinn, I'm sorry, but you're not really funny, and Santana totally can't be Batman because she was still sleeping with a nightlight when we were in 8th grade," Brittany reveals matter-of-factly.

Sadie and Kurt start howling in laughter at that last tidbit. I even have to cover my mouth with my hand. I of course knew about Santana's issue with the darkness growing up, because I was friends with her far before Brittany ever was, but I never told anyone about it.

Santana has been frustratingly stubborn for as long as I've known her, and she's continuously had issues with admitting fear or weakness. But, as soon as our sleepovers started in elementary school, the terror in her eyes was unmistakable once it was time for bed. She refused to talk to me about it at first, so I would just go on and on about the books I read, and the boys my sister had crushes on at school until Santana fell asleep. Sometimes I would beg relentlessly for us to sleep outside. She'd complain about the bugs and whine about how hard and uncomfortable the ground was, but I knew that she felt safer outside than she did in her bedroom. Eventually, she would tell me about the each shape that she saw at night, and how certain shadows looked like very specific things from her nightmares. I watched in fascination as the dread drained from her. It always pained me how reluctant Santana was, throughout our entire childhood and teenage years, to talk about her feelings when doing so obviously did her so much good.

Santana's cheeks flush slightly, and she turns her head away. I'm sure it's quite the ego check for the badass fixer extraordinaire.

"And there are no good guys and bad guys here anyway! So you know what you're going to do? You're going to stop ignoring each other starting now for the rest of the night, and we're going to commence this new chapter by playing Warrior Chicken Paint Fight," Brittany demands, clapping us each on the back.

"What?" I question, because if this is anything like regular chicken fighting than I am so not game.

"Everyone partners up, and one person sits on the other person's shoulders and then we all squirt each other with paint!" Brittany outlines earnestly.

Sadie hands the bottles that she's gathered from the table over to a waiting staff member, and she kneels in front of me, and Brittany crouches in front of Santana with a smirk in my direction. Santana laughs and shakes her head animatedly.

"No. No. No. There's no way," I refuse.

Neither girl moves from their lowered positions on the floor. Santana seems to hear something from behind her, however, and spins completely around.

"Kurt, absolutely not. Pam, was it? Was that your name? Please don't give him his phone. He's trying to drunk text someone that he shouldn't," Santana is apparently more focused on Kurt than the mayhem that Brittany is attempting to rope us into.

"We've all been there," Pam relates.

"Pam, lovely, will you radio the barkeep to bring us some double liquid courage shots?" Sadie requests, rising from her position with a hand on my shoulder.

"As long as you promise not to let my phone number rub off during your little chicken fight," Pam bargains.

I share an eye roll with Rachel of all people.

"You have my phone over there, sweetheart. Feel free to plug your number into it," Sadie directs with a sultry smile.

"Okay yes, yes, you two are going to make the song of scissors with your lady parts, now may I have _my_ phone please?" Kurt beseeches.

"Sober Kurt would not be texting Sebastian," Rachel asserts.

"Yes, well non-sober Kurt is willing to admit that Sebastian is cute and that he wants to have relations with him on a dewy meadow of lilac," Kurt slurs, promptly placing one hand on his hip.

"I thought that was your Taylor Lautner fantasy, and only before he gets fat," Rachel recalls.

"Sebastian would let me call him Taylor. I'm sure he's into some really kinky-" Kurt clarifies.

"This is getting weird," Sadie interrupts, holding a hand up to stop Kurt from detailing any further.

An unfamiliar member of the staff clears his throat, capturing the room's attention.

"Double shots?" he motions to his tray.

"That's us!" Brittany claims excitedly. She hops over to the staffer, promptly passing out the shots to each of us.

Santana watches her with such relaxed affection that my heart flutters in my chest. I'm perplexed by my body's reaction. I think back to all of the times I've seen Santana over the course of the last few months, and I believe that the most pleasant interaction I've witnessed her having was with Tyler. I think that it's just really nice to see her looking happy.

I can feel Sadie's curious gaze on my face.

"I will give you a roll of pennies, if you keep your thoughts to yourself right now," I promise her in a whispered tone.

"Have you ever even seen a roll of pennies, Fabray? I know you don't have the highest opinion of me, but my going rate is a lot more than 50 cents," Sadie jokes. She's right. I'm not sure if I've ever seen a roll of pennies in person.

"I thought if the going rate for a thought was a penny, than 50 pennies should be more than enough to shut you up," I remark back.

"You are nowhere near drunk enough if you're thinking that quickly on your feet," she winks at me. Clearly she saw right through the fact that I had no idea how many pennies were in a roll.

"Good thing we're about to take these then. I don't_ not_ have a high opinion of you, by the way," I admit.

"Was that a compliment? Have I finally melted through the icy shield around your heart?"

"I told you before; you two are not allowed to have sex!" Kurt abruptly pushes himself between us, almost bumping my shot glass out of my hand.

As if they were all back in Glee again, Rachel, Santana, and Brittany all rotate around in time together.

Sadie's eyes widen in alarm, and she snatches Kurt's shot from his hand and takes it herself. Brittany looks bemused, Rachel looks aghast, and Santana looks as though she wants to smash her shot glass into Sadie's head.

"Sadie!" Rachel snaps.

"Oh as if I would ever!" Sadie gasps.

That's enough of an explanation for Brittany because she's already moved on to herding her other friends forward to take the shot with us. Rachel's stare is intently evaluating Santana, while Santana has what I can only describe as murder in her eyes directed straight at Sadie.

Kurt gives Sadie and me each a very firm point with his finger, as if to tell us to behave, before he rushes over to Santana.

I can't help but laugh at how ridiculous this all is, as Sadie leans into my ear.

"Not that you're not attractive. I don't need to tell you how pretty you are. You have mirrors for that. But, besides my own family members, I don't think there is anyone who I could consider to be more off limits than your hot self," she explains, despite the fact that I never took offense. Sadie's a flirt, most definitely, but she's one of the most honest people I've ever met. A compliment from her, even under such circumstances, means a lot.

"Are you two done? We have shots to take and Chicken Battle to get going," Santana interrupts impatiently.

_Is she jealous?_ Or does it just sicken her to think of Sadie sleeping with one of her least favorite people?

"Warrior Chicken Paint Fight," Brittany corrects, and Sadie and I move forward to join the circle.

"Whatever," Santana mumbles, and Kurt tilts his head into her shoulder. Or well, he tries, but with the height difference, he basically knocks into her head. She shoots him an aggravated glare and he rights himself.

"Since this party was my brain child, I guess I'll give a little toast. This shot is for Brittany. To the kookiest, kindest, and most killer dancer who has ever tried to stab with me a broken beer bottle!" Sadie leads us in raising our glasses, before we toast to Brittany and take our shots.

"Alright ladies. Saddle up!" Brittany commands, crouching down in front of me this time, while Sadie appears to be trying to smooth something over with Santana.

"This isn't safe. The paint is slippery, and you both have had how much to drink?" Rachel worries off to the side.

"You're playing, too!" Brittany informs Rachel, gesturing to Kurt.

"I am _not_ riding the most inebriated pony!" Rachel argues slamming both of her hands down on her hips.

Santana is suddenly in front of me, handing me a pair of goggles, with a disinterested hand. Her body language is deliberately apathetic, but her eyes are glossy with the influence of alcohol, and I see something powerful there, although I have no idea what it is.

"This is a stupid idea," I echo Rachel's statement in an effort to break the spell of the moment

She nods in agreement, smiling as if to say _you sure got that right._

"Probably. Let's just try to get more paint on each other than we do the ground, yeah?" she suggests as she moves around to the back of Brittany.

I pull the goggles over my eyes with an apprehensive smile, as everyone else does the same. I hesitantly place one leg over Brittany's shoulder before throwing the other over as well.

I'm in the air before I've gotten a proper grip on anything.

"Oh my god! Brittany!" I cry out. She holds onto my legs to steady me, and I can't stop repeating what a bad idea this is in my head.

Soon enough, Santana's eyes are level with mine, and she appears even more terrified than I do. She's pawing at the top of Sadie's head, cursing in Spanish as Sadie struggles to find her proper balance.

A thick string of red forms in front of me without warning, splashing over my face, neck, chest and stomach. I can't wipe any off of the goggles or away from my mouth because I still don't feel safe enough to hold on with anything less than both hands. I can vaguely make out Santana in front of me, and she hasn't been handed her squeeze bottle yet either, so I know she's not the culprit.

But, I can distinctly hear Kurt cackling from below.

"You little-" I threaten, but Brittany's on the move. I'm pretty sure the resulting sound that comes out of my mouth is something akin to an unattractive screech. I'm clinging for dear life as my "inebriated pony" moves around in her erratic fashion.

There are more people on shoulders now; Brittany's other friends, I'm assuming. All I can do is hold onto whatever parts of Brittany that I can reach.

Another current of paint hits my back.

It's a mess, and I'm still not armed. Not that I would want to be, because seriously, I'm focused on staying upright and alive.

By the weapon imitation noises Brittany is making below me, I'm relatively sure that she has a squeeze bottle in her hand.

I duck my head down, gripping Brittany's body as tightly as I can with my legs.

Something changes, and Brittany shifts, no slips forward, and I'm not sure if the scream leaves my mouth or if it is entirely in my head.

I start to flail in preparation for my impending meeting with the floor when a steady hand grips my bicep and prevents me from falling backwards.

Through the multiple blotchy colors on my goggles, I can see that Santana has a firm hand set flat on a clean spot on the wall, and her other hand is keeping me upright.

"Down! Game's over!" she declares. She doesn't release my arm until the girls are crouching down once again. I'm relatively sure that my stomach has not moved from the place it jumped to in my throat awhile ago. You would have thought that we were a bunch of 16-year-old idiots again rather than adults in their mid twenties.

Santana climbs off of Sadie's shoulders in a manner that definitively expresses just how relieved she is to be on the ground again.

Brittany whines in disappointment as I remove myself as well.

I wipe the paint from my mouth with the back of my hand, before sliding my goggles off my head. Everyone around us is successfully covered in paint. By the maniacal looks on Rachel and Kurt's faces, each holding two squeeze bottles a piece, I know exactly who the main perpetrators were. I wonder how Rachel went from thinking that it was too dangerous to joining in on Kurt's paint assault.

"That was some dumb fucking shit," Santana growls and Brittany shrugs in response with a sheepish grin.

"Oh you're fine, princess," Sadie snarks, drawing a circular pattern in Santana's shoulder with the glob of paint that landed here.

Brittany takes a brush from a staff member, and rotates me around by my shoulders I'm assuming so she can make some sort of design with the paint on my back before it dries.

I wouldn't mind Brittany's attentions to my back, now that my feet are firmly planted on the ground, but Sadie is doing the same to Santana, which leaves us to face each other once again.

Her beautiful face is marked with green, red, and blue paint, and her body has at least twice as many colors. Her chest heaves just a touch with each breath she takes, probably from the excitement of earlier. She's freer with her eye contact tonight. Her eyes seem to have no qualms with acknowledging me, especially right now.

It's confusing when a mere half an hour or so ago, I had made the self-determination that I was done trying with her. We've always been very push-pull. It shouldn't surprise me. But, it's difficult to maintain such resolve when she's not only looking at me like I exist, but also like she doesn't hate me.

"Is it nice to be the painted rather than the painter for once, Fabray?" Sadie inquires from behind Santana.

"I'm only praying that Brittany isn't doing anything obscene back there," I respond jokingly, and Brittany giggles in response.

_Oh great._

Hopefully she isn't the one who created the disfigured genitalia on Puck's chest, because I am going to flip my shit if she does the same to me. There's no way that I'm walking around with anything like that on my body all night.

"Do you remember when you painted Santana as Anck-Su-Namun for Halloween? That was ah-ma-zing," Kurt reminds me during his mutual paint session with Rachel.

_Fuck._ Of all the things I don't need to be reminded of right now that would probably be at the very top of the list. For Santana's Halloween party senior year she surprised me, wearing only a leather band around her hips and faux gold plates over her areolas. I spent over an hour painting her before that party, although we took a short break midway. I remember that it was ridiculously difficult to focus on painting her when she was basically naked in front of me. We were only a few weeks into our relationship and we hadn't told anyone else about us yet. Since Puck and Kurt were also in the room, I had to be very careful to not show just how much having my hands and brushes all over Santana's body was affecting me. When Kurt and Puck left the room briefly, to my credit, it only took me about four minutes to get Santana off against my hand.

Santana's eyes darken in front of me, much like they used to when she was aroused._ Does she remember it, too?_ My god, I'm certifiably unable to think of anything else at this point.

"We found them!" Puck exclaims in triumph, and I twist my head to see him enter the room with Mercedes. Their entrance is a relief in multiple ways.

I haven't seen her in months, so I momentarily forget that Britt's in the middle of something, and I quickly move to greet my old friend. I swing my arms around her as soon as I reach her.

"You look like you've run yourself through a paint sprinkler, baby girl," she comments into my hair. I laugh, hugging her tighter before I answer.

"You have no idea," I lament, closing my eyes into her embrace.

She tells me how much she's missed me, and I'm all too ready to return the sentiment. Just having her here makes me feel more comfortable, although admittedly, I have been having fun, even with as confusing as that fun has been.

"This song! We have to dance!" Brittany demands, and I watch her yank Sadie and Santana out of the room, one girl's hand in each of hers.

* * *

A few gummy bear shots, a few songs, and an unknown amount of time later, my hair is sticking to the paint on my face, the alcohol has me feeling warm all over, and my calves are burning from the relentless dancing.

Mercedes throws her head back in laughter as Kurt does his best Jersey Turnpike in front of her before doing his trademark shimmy dance move up to me. I grin stupidly imitating his movement.

Brittany and Sadie have been going back and forth between choreography from the tours they've both been on, and just free-styling the hell out of the songs. They're fascinating to watch, especially when their other dance friends become involved. Every time Sadie dances with me, however, I swear that Santana's eyes are on us. I can't believe that one comment from Kurt would make her believe that I have that sort of relationship with Sadie. I'm still not sure why she would care, in any case.

Puck is the weakest link in the three way dance he often gets caught up in with Santana and Rachel. Rachel is more ballerina than she is club. Santana is more club than she is technical. And Puck, Puck dances similar to how I would imagine a drunk moose would dance. Except there is more dice throwing, sprinkling movements, and walking like an Egyptian than one could hope to find in the wild. Santana laughs more than I have seen her laugh in years. I'm unwillingly charmed by it. It's a far cry from the stone-faced calculating fixer that I've been encountering.

Briefly, I allow myself to entertain an alternate reality. A reality where I came into myself much sooner, and Santana and I never broke up. A reality where it would be me in Rachel's position rather than her.

But, in the real world I understand how hard I've worked to get where I am today, and how comfortable I am in my own skin. I can't waste time on "what ifs" when I love where I am in life. There's no point.

"I think Sadie was a bouncer in her former life," Kurt remarks over his shoulder as he rocks his back against me.

Sadie is currently shooing away a girl whose bra had just been signed by Rachel. I don't envy the fact that Rachel constantly has to deal with strangers approaching her, although she doesn't look as if she minds. Sadie laughs and shakes her head as Rachel returns to dancing. For some reason my eyes flicker to Santana, but there isn't a hint of jealousy or displeasure to be found on her face, despite the fact that Sadie is guiding Rachel's hips with her hands.

As soon as I return my attention to Kurt and Mercedes, "Empire State of Mind" comes over the speakers. The track has definitely been altered by the DJ, but Brittany screams in excitement anyway, running to grab every former member of the Glee Club that she can find. I attempt to share an uninterested look with Mercedes, but she's all about it.

By the time we're all gathered, Puck is mouthing the end of Finn's old part, as Mercedes grooves beside him, inserting her amazing vocal riffs above the music. I almost can't believe it's happening, because I know what a formidable wedge was driven between them because of the Santana situation. But they're dancing together as if no time has passed. Puck still looks just as much of a goober rapping as he ever did.

Santana is doing the backwards dance hop thing with her arms out. She looks adorable.

"Dance!" Brittany demands of me.

Brittany's body spins against me, with Santana on her other side. She dances us both forward to create the lines that we once did on the steps of the courtyard with Rachel and Mercedes in front.

I can't remember a single step of the choreography but Brittany situates herself less than a foot ahead of me to serve as an example. I follow her to the best of my abilities. I'm not sure that these are even the moves that we once did, but it's fun in any case. As silly as I feel, my self-consciousness fades the longer the song goes on. Besides, no one could look as goofy as Kurt does right now.

I do my best to ignore the way Santana rolls her body every time she throws one of her hands into the air. Before I know it, the song is ending and Santana is rocking her shoulder against mine with her arms crossed. It takes me a moment to catch her rhythm, and more than a moment to recover from the contact once the song ends.

Dancing with everyone again is such a rush. It makes me nostalgic in a way that I haven't experienced in a very long time.

Despite the start of my night, I'm having a fantastic time.

"That's the dorkiest thing I've ever seen," Sadie teases with a laugh, and I realize that the music has stopped.

Brittany pouts immediately. A person that I believe was engaged in our irresponsible chicken fight earlier squeezes Brittany's shoulder and tells her not to worry, that the party isn't over yet.

The lights switch off one by one.

"Tonight, ultimately, is about our love for one person, Miss Brittany S. Pierce, and in light of that, we made this video for her," Sadie announces, leaning into the DJ's microphone.

With that, a white projection illuminates the far wall, and the screen is flooded with baby pictures of Brittany to the tune of "I Was Born (A Unicorn)."

The pictures shift and change through her adolescence and adventures with her siblings and friends. I would bet almost anything that there isn't a soul in the room without a smile on their face.

My own smile wavers when the video reaches our high school years. It's bittersweet to see picture after picture of how close we all used to be. There are various shots from Glee, the Cheerios, and some rather unfortunate party pictures.

Big bold letters interrupt the stream of pictures: "UNHOLY TRINITY". I don't know where she comes from but Brittany's arm is around my shoulders within seconds, and I can see that she's managed to tug a reluctant Santana along with her. The music changes to "Sexy, Naughty, Bitchy" and the pictures begin with us as knobby kneed freshmen posing on the field for our first day of Cheerio practice. Santana and I were clearly attempting, and failing, to appear intimidating while Brittany was looking at something to the left of the camera that had apparently caught her attention.

As the pictures flash by, I find myself torn between rapt fascination, and my desire to look away entirely. I've spent so much time avoiding pictures of Santana and me together that it's overwhelming to have them float by, larger than life, right in front of my face. I'm reminded against my will of every plane ride, every party, every competition, and every fucking sleepover.

There's a short video of senior year that plays, when Santana and I were co-captains of the Cheerios. I've never even seen this video before but someone is taping an argument between the two of us about the positioning of one of the girls. Santana claims that the girl can't hack it, and I'm determined that she'll get it soon enough. Brittany comes sneaking up to us from the corner of the frame with a hose in her hand. She releases the spray, and it sends Santana and I squealing off the field right before the video ends.

Brittany shoots me a grin in the semi-darkness, and I shake my head at her. I don't know how many times Brittany kept Santana and me from each other's throats.

Thankfully, once we've moved past graduating and our senior summer, the Unholy Trinity business is done. Brittany's skipped over to someone else in the crowd, leaving Santana and I about an arm's distance away from each other. I'm able to watch panic free as Brittany matures, and achieves her dancing dreams. It saddens me how many unfamiliar faces I see, a stark indication of how very detached I've been from Brittany's life all this time.

But, it's the pictures that are the closest to the present which cause the greatest unease within me. My face makes its reappearance, in various pictures. Some are only with Brittany while others are with the group, or with her fiancés. The striking part of it all, at least for me, is that every picture I'm in, Santana's not and vice versa.

Both of our heads turn at the same time, and I can swear that she's had a similar revelation. Maybe it's fueled partially by the alcohol, and what an insane ride tonight has been, but I feel as though for once, we're on the same page. The show must have ended because everyone around us is cheering, but Santana progresses toward me. The music starts, the lights begin spinning once again, but I'm frozen in place.

"How do you feel about a truce? At the very least, for our friends?" Santana asks me, ignoring the bodies that have begun to writhe around us.

"I was never the one against it," I contend. I know I should just say yes, but my pride momentarily gets the best of me.

"Touché. I haven't been the friendliest," Santana concedes. I'm astonished. I'm sure my puzzlement is written all over my features.

Before I can form a proper response, Brittany has snatched Santana's hand and is twirling her in place. Mercedes finds me in the crowd shortly thereafter, and I'm left wondering exactly what just happened.

* * *

There's a line of cabs out front, and one giant black car (which I'm guessing is for Brittany), when we all finally stumble our way down the steps in front of the venue.

Santana is probably the only force keeping Rachel upright, and Mercedes is testing my strength by threatening to curl up on the sidewalk at any minute. I help Mercedes into the car with the others because she has promised Brittany that she'd stay with her tonight, and with me tomorrow night.

"There's nothing fair about this. Sadie is allowed to get her freak on with painted Patty Simcox in the curtain room, and I can't even have my phone!" Kurt slurs heatedly.

Knowing Sadie, I'm not in the least bit surprised.

"Her name is Pam," Sadie corrects with a smirk while she opens one of the black car's doors.

"Please tell me that happened _after_ the cock fight," Rachel garbles. Of course Rachel wouldn't want her make out room tainted by Sadie's sexcapades.

"Speaking of cock, gimme my phone!" Kurt demands.

"I did not just hear that, ya nasty ass," Mercedes face contorts into a sloppy scowl.

Once I'm sure the Mercedes is securely in the car, I make a less than contained wave to everyone before I make my way over to the waiting cabs.

"What do you think you're doing?" Santana calls to me, as she pushes one of Rachel's tan legs into the car.

I have a strong feeling who Rachel is going to be bunking with tonight. But truly, it's none of my business. If Rachel and Santana are seeing each other than that's their prerogative.

As for our "truce" I've decided to approach anything between us with very cautious optimism.

"I'm going home?" I answer, cursing the uptick at the end of my sentence.

"Just get over here. You're riding with us," Santana proclaims, gesturing me over.

The other riders in the car echo her statement, loudly, and I find myself complying. I don't know what this is or where this is going, and although I'm definitely wary, this feels like a good thing.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter XI**

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who reads, follows, favorites, and reviews! **

**As for ckeller48, I need a new adjective for you. Marvelous? Okay yeah, let's go with that. **

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

"How often do you look in the mirror and think _whoa I'm really good looking_?" Sadie ponders from her seated position on the counter.

We were supposed to be headed to a spinning class, but we decided that an afternoon and evening of popcorn and movies sounded much more appealing. Sadie is infatuated with romantic comedies and not afraid to admit it. I gave her a two romcom limit, however. There's only so much that a normal person can take. I enjoy them on occasion, sure, but she has the cheesiest taste in them.

"Are you really looking at your reflection in the microwave right now?" I shake my head in disbelief, scrutinizing her from my spot on the couch.

"No, who do you think I am?" she smiles, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

"I was just checking," I laugh, crossing my legs beneath me.

"I'm looking at my reflection in the fridge. The microwave is running so I can't see myself in it," Sadie clarifies, peering into the face of her black, stainless steel fridge.

"You're an idiot."

"If I'm an idiot, then at least I'm a hot idiot." Sadie slides off the counter to retrieve the popcorn from the microwave.

"Unbelievable. Do you need me to go so you and the fridge can be alone?" I mock, briefly contemplating exactly how one would go about having sex with a fridge.

"And Britt said you weren't funny." Sadie sticks her tongue out at me like a child would. I don't return the gesture.

I know I'm not known for my jokes, but I've never been specifically told that I'm _not funny_ before. It stung a little when Brittany said it, I'm not going to lie.

Sadie's phone rings to the tune of some hip hop song that I don't recognize, lighting up in her pocket.

"Little early for a booty call isn't it?" I tease, while Sadie takes her place next to me on the couch.

Of course she doesn't even bother to bring a bowl over; she eats right out of the bag. By the smell, she's clearly burnt it. I know it's how she likes it, and she couldn't care less how I would prefer the popcorn to be.

"Oh honey, I hope you don't just restrict your sex life to the twilight hours. There's a whole other world out there to explore," she educates, making a broad motion with her hands.

"Fuck you." I kick her lightly with my foot. I may not have people constantly coming in and out of my apartment like Sadie does, but I'm definitely no prude. I think it's perfectly reasonable that I'd rather have a firm handle on someone's first and last names before I consider getting into bed with them.

"I told you at Britt's party that you're off limits," Sadie reminds me with a mouth full of popcorn.

I think that she made that comment somewhere around the time when the alcohol started to kick in. The truth is I have no interest in anything sexual with Sadie. She's definitely good looking, no one can deny that. But I can't ever imagine seeing her in that light, and it isn't because I used to hate her guts. It's difficult to put my finger on the specific reason but I know it has everything to do with Santana.

See, there are moments where Sadie reminds me of Santana. Like the way she constantly uses nicknames for people (some of which I've noticed are ones that Santana herself created). Sadie and Santana are witty in a similar way, and their senses of humor overlap significantly. Then there's the presence quality that they share. When Sadie walks into the room everyone notices her, and it's not because of her thick red hair; it's because she has the innate command, a presence that demands attention. Also like Santana, Sadie's fiercely loyal and extremely protective over the people she loves.

I fell in love with Santana once upon a time, so it wouldn't be so absurd for me to be attracted to someone with similar qualities, right? But it _is_ absurd to me. The demonstration of these qualities almost unfailingly beckons me into the realm of my memory. With each familiar nickname, I can recall ten ways in which the two women are distinct from one another. Or at least how Sadie is different from the woman I remember.

Their differences are striking. For example, while Sadie may have finally decided to settle down in one area, she appreciates freedom and mobility whereas Santana prefers to plant roots and create routines. Santana never had a home situation like the rest of us did. She finds great comfort in having the same people around her, because it's the closest that she'll ever get to a family until she begins her own. Alternatively, when Sadie wants someone to like her she tries really hard to make that happen. Santana is more of the stand back and wait type with random bursts of effort mixed in.

Sadie spouts off her feelings without reservation whenever they happen, while Santana's feelings often have to be extracted from her. Santana reacts, she emotes, she expresses, but rarely does she talk about her issues without being asked. Sadie doesn't allow things to build inside of her until they combust like Santana sometimes does.

Sadie plays the role of the peacekeeper with her friends. She wants the people that she likes to get along with one another. Santana, in contrast, is a caretaker. Whether people want it or not she ensures that her friends are safe and okay. Santana is proactive where Sadie is reactive. Santana remembers the little things like what kind of coffee people drink, and which songs make people smile. Sadie tends to remember the little things only when she's involved in them. She's more of a big picture kind of girl.

Santana wouldn't burn popcorn when she's sharing it with another person, even if that's how she preferred it. She would "undercook" it, and play it off as a mistake, when in reality she deliberately didn't burn it. When Sadie does something for someone else she wants other people to know about it whereas Santana often makes efforts to hide the evidence of her good deeds. Santana talks a big game but she's secretly humble.

Sadie's far more forward and flirtatious, although Santana is capable of being both. They're impatient in different ways. Sadie values her own time greatly, while Santana gets anxious about wasting the time of others. Sadie, at times, lacks tact, while Santana is usually aware of the proper time and place for certain things. Santana loves surprising people, but hates being surprised, and I would guess Sadie enjoys both.

Most importantly, when Sadie hugs me I don't feel safe and at home. Santana's hugs always made me feel content in a way that no others ever have. Sadie smells like lavender soap often with a hint of cigarette smoke, which is nothing like my ex-girlfriend's scent.

Their mannerisms are different. One of my favorites used to be that Santana does this thing where she often takes people's hands when she's leading them somewhere. She mirrors lip biting, even though she doesn't realize that she's doing it. She crosses her arms frequently when she's experiencing a negative emotion.

More concisely, Sadie and I can never have anything because she reminds me of Santana but is decisively_ not_ Santana. It's not that the trade off in qualities trends positively in one woman's direction. Sadie certainly possesses some traits that Santana does not that would make her easier to be in a relationship with.

But, when Sadie does remind me of Santana, there's something that tugs inside of me that craves for more. Having any form of a physical relationship with Sadie would just be weird, because I would want her to be someone who she is definitely not.

"And why is that exactly?" I question out of curiosity.

"Sex and the City. Samantha really appreciated herself some sex, right? And yet, she never took a ride on Mr. Big even during Carrie and Mr. Big's breaks. You don't mess around with your best friend's most significant ex," Sadie explains.

"I'm her most significant?" My chest tightens at the thought. Santana wasn't my longest relationship, but our relationship definitely had the greatest impact on me of any that I have had since.

"Now who's the idiot? While we're on the topic of love, how was your date last week?" Sadie changes the subject, and I get the idea that she's trying to be more respectful of Santana's boundaries. Because of that, I don't press it, even though I definitely want to know more.

I've almost forgotten entirely about last week's date. It wasn't a memorable experience, if I'm being honest.

"It was…nice. She was…nice." Sadie tilts the popcorn bag in my direction and I convey my disinterest with a movement of my head.

"She sounds like a yawnfest," she observes, reaching for the remote control for the television.

"Yeah, that's unfortunately accurate," I sigh. She _was_ nice, but she couldn't maintain a conversation to save her life.

Sadie's phone rings again, and this time she digs it out of her pocket to answer it.

"What quarter life crisis are you having right now, Fancy, that you need to be blowing up my phone like this?" she says into the phone, in lieu of a greeting.

It must be Kurt.

Sadie's mouth drops as she listens to whatever it is that he called to say.

"Tonight? You're kidding." She sits up straight, and tosses the popcorn bag onto the table.

"Yes, I could use the extra money, of course, but this is crazy, and your fru fru crap will not jive with mine." Sadie gestures at me as if to say _can you believe this?_ which is silly considering how I can only hear half of the conversation.

She stands up, driving a hand through her hair.

"But it's going to be so much work, and I have an audition tomorrow morning," Sadie whines into the mouthpiece.

"I don't know many people who are going to want to help us all night."

_All night?_ What could Kurt possibly need help with that would take all night?

"Fuck. Fine. I'll try to bribe Quinnie here. Your first beggar's call needs to be Santana," she orders, and I flinch at the nickname. My dad is the only one who calls me that. Or did call me that, rather.

"Yeah, I know she isn't the manual labor type but bitch knows how to get shit done," she asserts.

"I'll start clearing the spare room, but you owe me. Call me when you have a plan," she finishes before hanging up.

I don't have to ask for Sadie to enlighten me. She jumps right into it.

"So, Kurt's lease is going to be up at the end of this month, and his landlord is raising the rent for the shoebox he lives in. Another tenant wants to move in tomorrow, and the landlord offered to give him his entire security deposit back, no questions asked, if he's out by noon tomorrow."

I glance back at the clock on the microwave.

"It's already four," I point.

If Kurt just found this out, then that means that he probably isn't packed. This is going to be a complete clusterfuck.

"I know. So what do ya say?"

I haven't seen Santana since last weekend. I was the first one the car dropped off after Brittany's party ended. Santana was quiet the whole ride, probably because Kurt and Sadie were busy arguing about Kurt's phone. Sadie finally admitted that Santana was the one holding it, and she suggested that Kurt try to physically get it from her. He promptly dropped the subject.

I would help even if Santana wasn't going to be around, but I am interested to see exactly how this "truce" is going to play out.

"I already regret this, but sure," I groan. No matter what, this is going to be a long night.

* * *

**Santana's POV**

"We're dropping the first load!" Puck announces our arrival to Sadie's apartment.

I grimace over at him, until I realize that he isn't actually making a disgusting joke for once.

My arms are already sore from carrying Kurt's shit up all of Sadie's steps. I had one hell of a training workout this morning, and then I had to go into work because some fucking congressman couldn't keep his dick in his pants. So, my energy was pretty much at empty when this mess started.

I'm tired, and I know that this endeavor is going to take all night. When Kurt called I was a breath away from offering to just give him the security deposit money myself, so he could move out within the normal time frame. I'm sure he wouldn't have taken it, in any case.

The worst part of the experience so far was being stuck in Puck's truck sitting between Puck and Sebastian. I'm floored that Sebastian volunteered to help, although he's been all about trying to get into Kurt's fancy pants as of late. Sebastian is such an asshole that I was afraid that Puck was going to reach over and clock him during various parts of our commute.

"I don't have it cleared out back here yet, just leave what you have in the living room," Sadie instructs with a yell.

The three of us set our stuff down as coached.

"This is why there are people who can be hired for these matters," Sebastian complains, tugging the fabric of his shirt repeatedly in attempt to cool down.

"I can't believe that you're so hard up for sex that you're doing this," I remark.

"I'm not hard up for anything except for time away from you, Lopez," Sebastian scowls.

Puck is in work mode, and he ignores both of us, fetching packing tape and who knows what else from Sadie's hall closet.

Sebastian can't shield his face for me quickly enough. And just like that, everything makes sense. I can't believe that I didn't see it before.

"Oh my god, you actually like him, don't you?" I accuse, and he literally turns away from me so I can't read his reaction.

"Don't be ridiculous," he growls back weakly.

"You do! Everything makes so much sense now. That's why you've been coming to our shows, that's why you cash in favors he owes you with dinners with him, and that's definitely why you're here tonight," I summarize.

Sebastian doesn't respond. Instead, he walks right out the door like a petulant child. It's all the confirmation I need.

"I called it!" Sadie shouts from the spare room.

I'm so glad that she heard that, because I have to talk to someone about this. It's just too good. Formerly, I wasn't convinced that Sebastian even had feelings, period. To think that he has actual feelings for Kurt Hummel.

I jog back to Sadie's former spare room/Kurt's new room to share in the delicious excitement of this revelation. Before I even cross the path of the door frame, however, I'm greeted by Quinn's ass. She's bending over in a pair of Sadie's tiny shorts with the name of her dance company across the butt. Logically, I'm sure that Quinn was probably in one of her dresses, and Sadie gave her more comfortable clothes to work in. The irrational side of me hates seeing Quinn in Sadie's clothes regardless of _why_ she has them on. Once again logically, I know that Sadie would _never_ so much as kiss Quinn, but that hasn't stopped the images from periodically flashing through my head since Britt's party.

I don't recall exactly how old I was when I first became obsessed with Quinn's derriere, but I remember how painfully difficult it was for me to have to palm that ass during cheerleading stunts when I desperately wanted to dig my nails into it. I definitely did my share of nail digging after we became a couple. Especially when one of us was wearing the strap on, and pretty much every single time she was on top while we 69'd.

Sadie clears her throat and gives me a very pointed look as Quinn straightens her back. It's a kindness that I'm grateful for; I certainly wouldn't want Quinn to catch me staring at her ass. I avert my eyes, and I realize that I have no idea how long I've been standing here.

Kurt had warned me that Quinn was probably going to be helping out as well. And while I have yet to adjust to how entrenched with everyone Quinn is now, I didn't allow that fact to deter me. I realized at Britt's party, that while I wasn't forcing my friends to choose between us, that I was forcing them to choose between _time_ with us. I think Quinn had a similar thought after seeing Brittany's video. I had evidence thrusted directly in my face of a handful of times where I missed out on things specifically because Quinn was there. It only showed a fraction of how many there has been in reality, I'm sure. I may have my issues with Quinn, but I also recognize that it's not fair of me to deprive her of the company of our friends. We did similar things in high school. Sometimes things between us got so bad that we avoided each other entirely. I know now that it had a negative impact on our friends.

In a way, I'm the reason that my friends were without Quinn for so many years. It may not have been _my_ decision, but if Quinn and I had never dated then she probably wouldn't have disappeared like she did. _Well, that's a depressing thought._

Anyway, my time is limited these days, and I don't want to waste it. I don't expect for us to be best friends, but I know I can do a better job of being friendly with her than I have been.

"Hey," I greet her while she arcs down to grab something else to place into the trash bag that she's holding. Thankfully, this time she's facing me.

"Hi," she mouths back with a flustered and somewhat suspicious expression.

_Okay, that was dorky._

She adjusts one of the bobby pins in her hair, and I fight the compulsion to tell her how much I like the shorter hairstyle. It makes her look sophisticated; well, perhaps when she's not in booty shorts.

"Hello to you, too, Santana. Remember me, over here, on the floor, waiting anxiously for you to explain why you've come running in here as if you've heard through the grapevine that I'm giving away Louboutins," Sadie sarcastically waves to catch my attention. I could kill her sometimes.

She's seated cross-legged on the floor, sorting through who knows what junk. She's so messy, it's borderline gross. I don't know how Kurt is going to tolerate it.

"This room is disgusting, and I live with _Puck_. Kurt's probably going to insist that you hose it down before his things touch anything in here," I sneer at whatever stain is in front of me on the carpet.

"It does smell a little…off in here, Sadie," Quinn backs me up.

"So I don't clean my spare room? What's the big deal?" Sadie shrugs.

"Do you know how high she's going to jump if she discovers your lost pet mouse under all of this shit?" I gesture to Quinn.

Quinn gasps, dropping the trash bag, and hops away from the pile nearest to her.

"Mouse?!" she exclaims. I hate how cute I find her to be. Sadie and I laugh for a few seconds before Sadie ends Quinn's misery.

"I never had a mouse. She's just a bitch," Sadie illuminates.

Quinn glares at me before forcefully snatching her trash bag from where she threw it. There's a hint of a smile on her face, however.

"Basically," I agree with a shrug.

"Are the guys waiting out there for you or what?" Sadie poses.

Oh, I had completely forgotten why I came in here.

"Shit, yes, but I wanted to talk about Kurt and Sebastian quick. Sebastian has it bad. Kurt's his Reese Witherspoon. Cruel Intentions style," I assert, and Sadie nods in enthusiastic agreement.

"Wasn't that asshole's name also Sebastian?" Sadie adds.

"It was!" I exclaim.

"You can't fight the pretty that is Kurt Hummel." Sadie raises her hands.

Kurt did not look pretty when we stopped for our first load earlier. He looked frantic and disheveled. He claimed that at least a couple of his friends from work were going to show, but so far he has no packing help.

I'm terrible at it myself. If I was ever left to my own packing devices, all my shit would be broken. Sebastian has probably never packed a box in his life. And Puck believes that trash bags are suitable substitutes for boxes.

But Quinn, Quinn was always great with stuff like that. When I moved out to NYC, for example, Quinn managed to fit all of my shit in my not-so-spacious car. She's pretty much a genius in that respect.

We'd probably be done much quicker if Quinn is on the packing team.

"Do you mind if we steal your trash lady? We're dropping Puck off to get a moving truck and we're taking his truck back to Kurt's," I request.

"You have enough movers. Don't take my company," Sadie pouts in my direction and then in Quinn's.

The situation makes me uncomfortable. Sadie has assured me that there isn't anything going on with her and Quinn, but they seem awfully cozy with one another.

Now I'm really determined to have Quinn go with us.

"Kurt needs another packer, and if I remember correctly, you're like the Martha Stewart of packing," I compliment while trying to sound as casual as possible.

Quinn appears torn. I'm sure the idea of traveling with me isn't high on her list of preferred activities. She bites down on her lower lip, and I have to deliberately fixate my eyes on Sadie in order to avoid staring at her mouth.

"Do you need me here?" Quinn inquires in Sadie's direction.

"Need is such a tricky word," Sadie sidesteps the question with a mischievous smile.

"That's a no," I clarify with a roll of my eyes.

"I suppose I'll go with you guys then," Quinn decides, and Sadie makes a pathetically disappointed noise.

_She can get over it._

"Alright. Enjoy your mess nest, Sadie," I bid her goodbye, and lead the way into the living room.

There's no sign of either of the guys.

"I'm sure they're already down in the truck. Impatient fuckers," I curse, before pulling the door open to the apartment hallway.

Quinn is silent, although I know she's behind me. God, I hope it's not going to be awkward like this all night.

After we have descended one flight, she finally speaks.

"Are you worried at all about Sebastian and Kurt?" she questions, out of the blue.

_Am I?_ I don't think I am, which is a surprise. Sebastian is cruel, underhanded, and manipulative. But, I've known him for years now, and I've never seen him act like this. Besides, Kurt may want to drunkenly have sex with Sebastian, but that doesn't mean that he'd actually entertain the idea of a relationship with my co-worker. Kurt's a romantic. He believes in commitment and monogamy, and flowers and heart shaped boxes of chocolate. He won't settle for someone who can't give him all of that. He never has.

"No, I'm not," I answer simply.

"Why not?" she inquires at my back as we twist down another flight of stairs.

"Sebastian knows what I'm capable of, better than anyone."

If Sebastian ever fucked Kurt over, there's no telling what I would do.

"Is that how you get what you want these days, with fear?" Quinn poses judgmentally.

I'm not going to be the one to kick this conversation into an argument. I refuse to let her get a rise out of me this time.

"It's not exactly a new trick for me," I shrug nonchalantly, pushing open the front door to the building.

"How far you've come from intimidating the halls of McKinley High." I can practically feel her sarcastic eye roll.

_Fuck her._ I don't need her judgment; I have more than enough of my own. She doesn't know me. She doesn't know my life.

"You won't see me waiting in line for a halo anytime soon. I'll leave that to you," I toss back at her, while we approach the truck.

It doesn't hit me until my hand is almost on the door handle that Puck's truck only seats three. I'm a forward thinker. I've been trained to plan for every possible scenario. And yet, as soon as Quinn Fabray walks in the room, it all goes out the window.

It's a short drive to the U-Haul place, but I'm sure it won't feel that way if I'm playing Santa with Quinn._ Fuck._

"Your dog is a loyal one, Lopez. I went so far as to offer to blow him if he would drive us away in this piece of scrap metal, and leave you to your three-way scissoring," Sebastian details as soon as we're within hearing distance.

Puck is leaning against the truck, and Sebastian is very obviously making sure that not an inch of his body is touching Puck's vehicle.

"Call me whatever you want, Princeton, but one day, Santana is going to give me the go ahead to free all of your teeth from that cesspool that you call a mouth," Puck threatens, pushing off the body of the truck.

"I look forward to it. You'll fit right into the penitentiary system. Hey, you can think of it as an opportunity to reconnect with your deadbeat dad," Sebastian warns back, turning to face Puck to punctuate.

I don't need to see Puck's face to know that Sebastian has flipped Puck's self-control switch. I step between them to draw Puck's eye contact, just before Puck can surge forward.

I set my gaze on his until his breathing slows, and eventually he crosses to the driver's side of the truck to get in.

"You pick up a stray?" Sebastian refers to Quinn.

I step a short distance away from the truck, and gesture for Sebastian to follow. I don't need Quinn to hear this. He steps away with me without hesitation.

"What are you going to do, Lopez? Are you going to hurt me? Going to give all of your cute little friends a demonstration of exactly who you really are?" Sebastian taunts.

Usually when I'm around Sebastian I'm in heels, so the height difference isn't so extreme. But, what I lack in height I make up for in tenacity.

"You know that I could hurt you and they would never know. I should leave you here, but Kurt needs all the help he can get right now. Oh, and speaking of Kurt, do you think that I'm going to allow you to get close to him if you continue to put your soullessness on full display?"

"You're no better than me," Sebastian counters. I don't shrink at his words. I don't recoil. But they leave the worst taste imaginable in my mouth. It's one of my deepest fears, and I'm sure he's aware of that.

"We can keep going down this road, and soon enough, I won't hesitate to make sure that everyone at the firm finds out about your indiscretions on the Brauer case," I blackmail.

Sebastian had an affair with the client's son. The client's daughter was kidnapped, and instead of interviewing the son, Sebastian was fucking him. To top it all off, he billed those hours. If I had siblings, and one of them was taken, I can't imagine fucking someone within the 24 hour window. _"People deal with tragedy differently," Sebastian claimed. "He doesn't know anything of importance," he contended._ I knew that he knew that it was all bullshit. There's nothing unimportant when it comes to cases like that.

I covered for him, because I knew that there would probably be a time in the future where I would need the same in return. I handled the son's interviews since Sebastian's judgment was compromised. I discovered that the son was involved in the kidnapping, which is something we would have known much sooner had Sebastian actually been doing his fucking job rather than fucking the scumbag. Sebastian received the credit for the cracking of that particular case.

People come to us instead of the police because we're far more effective. I used to live for cases like that. Cases where we could help families, cases where we could help bring murderers to justice. Cases that made me feel good, that made me feel like I was doing something right. But it was all just a fantasy. As more of the story was revealed each time, it became more and more apparent of just how fucked everyone in this world is. The Brauer case was just one example of that. I was still green enough to be shocked when we exposed that the brother and sister conspired together to stage her kidnapping with plans of splitting the ransom money.

If I've learned anything at this job it's that people are motivated by sex or money or both 90% of the time.

"Your hands aren't clean either," he raises. No one's hands are clean. Everyone is guilty of their own sins, everyone has their own secrets. I have kept this a secret this whole time, but I'll do what I have to, and Sebastian knows that.

"Your tell is showing," I mock. Sebastian loses his long-windedness when he's genuinely concerned about something. I know that I've won this one.

"You're weak. These people make you weak," he insults, and I turn to walk back to the truck. Without my friends tethering me to the ground, I don't know where I would be. He's probably right. I would be better at my job if I didn't have them to remind me of the good in people, the good in the world. But if I didn't have them what would I have? More money? More clients? More respect in my field? More pats on the back from my mother?

He has me so worked up that I no longer care that there are only three seats in the truck.

"Do you want top or bottom?" I offer to a disturbed looking Quinn, as I open the passenger side door.

"Excuse me?" Her face flushes, and I almost laugh at her shyness. This woman has had me in every position and yet a simple harmless question causes her to blush.

"In the truck. There are only three seats. Would you rather be on my lap or would you rather have me on yours? Unless you'd rather get on Sebastian's-" I elucidate for her.

"Oh. I don't care," Quinn responds, attempting to hide her irritation with my amusement by acting apathetic.

"Okay," I affirm, and I move across the seat of the truck. Bottom for me it is then. I figure that with Quinn's weight on top of me I'll be less likely to fidget.

She waits until Sebastian is headed our way before she crawls into the cab after me. From the instant she hesitantly slides onto my lap, I realize that I've made the wrong choice.

I'm once again overwhelmed with the vanilla and citrus and the quintessentially Quinn scent. She's warm, and her ass is directly against the crotch of my jean shorts. I swallow, suddenly very aware of my hands. I can't decide where to put them. I fumblingly settle for balling them into awkward fists by the side of my legs. I hear the truck door slam, indicating that Sebastian has now joined us. Once again, I've lost complete awareness of my surroundings.

Every time Quinn shifts, or we drive over a bump, her ass rubs against the middle seam of my shorts, providing a friction that I really don't need. _What the fuck is going on with me? Since when did I become this horny fucking teenager again?_ I'm no stranger to having women in my lap. It doesn't impact me like this.

But fuck, the back of Quinn's bare legs are flush with my equally bare skin. It feels hot, too hot. I know my legs are starting to sweat, and not because it's summer, and not because Puck's air conditioning is less than fabulous.

It's torture. And the mood in the truck is fucking tense. No one is talking. There's nothing to distract me from Quinn's soft weight on top of me. I lean back as much as I can. The last thing I need is for Quinn to notice my hard nipples against her back.

"Are you having a heat stroke? Muscles here better be able to carry the bulky items by himself, if you do. I'm not one for heavy lifting," Sebastian comments from beside me.

_Fuck._ I need to get this under control. Considering Sebastian's training, his observation doesn't necessarily indicate that I'm being obvious. I don't think I am. I don't think Puck has noticed my extreme discomfort.

But, in Sebastian's favor, I know that I am experiencing many of the symptoms that precede a heat stroke, although for reasons unrelated to the heat. Every inch of my skin that is in contact with hers is burning. I'm light headed from the combination of her scent and her body's movement against my shorts. My heartbeat is rapid. As soon as I felt her weight on me, I felt my heart's tempo increase in my chest, but I know that the majority of the speed is due to my panic over how my body is reacting, and the reality that I'm unable to control it. My muscles feel weak from the effort. My breathing is shallow, because I'm fighting to keep quiet, while making sure that I do, in fact, breathe. Without a doubt I'm disoriented, at least for me. Usually I see my environment as a series of complexities and potentially significant details. Without conscious thought, I know how many people are in a room, I know the texture of the floor, and every possible point of entry. It's like a devolution of my mind. My head is fuzzy and unorganized, and my once calculating thoughts have spiraled into profane reactions to bodily sensations.

Quinn takes a deep breath, her back arches, and her perfectly cuppable butt rolls back and against me once again. I clamp my hands down on the side material of my shorts, forcibly restraining any movement of my hips.

_Oh my god. I'm going to die._

"If you hurl in this truck while I'm in it, Lopez, I will kill everything that you love." Sebastian has never been good with bodily fluids. Aside from blood and I would wager semen, they all make him quite squeamish.

Mercifully, we pull into the U-Haul parking lot. Puck turns the truck into a parking spot, but he's really not moving out of the vehicle hastily enough for me.

"Is there a reason we're just sitting here?" I mumble impatiently.

"Damn girl, I'm getting out," he whistles. The second that Puck takes his first step out of the truck, I jerk myself so quickly and so roughly out from under Quinn that she almost falls into Sebastian.

"What the hell, Santana?" Quinn curses. The anger in her tone is evident, but she also sounds a shade wounded as well.

"It's hotter than hell in here. I could barely breathe," I lie, ignoring the tingling awareness of Quinn's eyes on my face.

* * *

It's been nearly an hour since the truck ride, and this desire, or whatever the fuck it is, that has overwhelmed my body somehow has not become any less prominent. It's unrelenting. My thoughts are still cloudy, and Puck continually has to repeat my name in order to get my attention.

After taking a few loads down to the moving truck, I tried racing back up the apartment steps to release some energy. But it didn't lessen my need at all. It just made me sweaty and grateful that I carry deodorant in my purse. It also caused Kurt to look at me like I was some kind of freak each time I entered his apartment again. I think Sebastian's figured it out by the way he smiles at me in between his flirty banter attempts with Kurt. I just pray that he hasn't discerned the _why_ of it all, or rather the reason for my sexual frustration.

We've been clearing the living room and Quinn has primarily been in Kurt's bedroom. It's a small favor that I don't have to be in close quarters with her. Although we did have that cliché passing moment in the hallway, where I didn't step out of her way swiftly enough to prevent our chests from skimming one another's. Since that encounter, I've been afflicted with visions of taking Quinn against the wall.

I don't remember the last time that I felt like this. I can't recall the last time this pure want inside of me felt so pressing, so urgent, so out of my fucking control. I know I'm acting like even more of an irritable bitch than usual because of it. I'm swarmed with guilt every time I snap at Puck.

I adjust the end of Kurt's mattress at the back of the moving van, and all I can think about is the weekend morning in late summer when Quinn was on her back on Mercedes' floor while I rode her face. Mercedes had left us there while she went to church, and she had made us promise not to have sex on her bed. We took that very literally. My hands were the only parts of me that were on her bed.

"You gonna make it, babe?" Puck questions by the mouth of the door.

"I'm fine. Stop fucking asking, okay?" I snap again, and I watch the hurt flash on his handsome features.

That's it. That's the final straw. I have to do something about this.

"I'm sorry. I think I just feel sticky and gross and I need to wash up a bit. Make a couple trips with some of the small things and then we'll get back to team work?" I propose.

"Sure," he agrees.

I lock the door of Kurt's bathroom the moment I enter it. I'm very careful to avoid making eye contact with myself in the mirror as I wash my hands. I'm afraid that if I do, I'll lose my nerve. I can't believe I'm going to do this, but if I know anything about problems, it's that sometimes they don't go away on their own. Some problems have to be fixed.

I leave the sink water running out of paranoia. I'm confident that I can be quiet. My body may have forgotten that I'm not a fucking adolescent, but I'm not that far gone.

I dry my hands quickly, turning away from the mirror to rest the small of my back against the cool counter. I fervently unbutton my shorts, pushing my hand directly beneath my underwear. I don't need to fucking make love to myself. I just need release. I need to get off so I can get back to feeling like a normal human being again.

It's never been exactly easy for me to come standing up, but I know that it can be achieved; it certainly doesn't hurt that I know precisely how to touch myself.

I'm so ridiculously wet that it's shameful. My clit is throbbing, and overly sensitive. It's difficult for me to achieve the friction I need when my finger slips so easily over it, and when I can't press too hard into the sensitive skin.

I move my hand faster to compensate. _Jesus fuck, this feels good._

With each gyration of my hips into my own hand, I'm reassured that this was the right decision. This was necessary to prevent myself from saying something stupid, or doing something-or someone-stupid.

My head falls back, my eyes close, and I allow myself to actually think of her. I haven't permitted Quinn to be a subject of my masturbatory fantasies in years. But, I'm pressed for time, and I'm not sure that I'm capable of thinking of anything else.

I bite down forcefully on my lower lip when I feel the whimper bubbling up in my throat. I'm getting close. So deliciously close to finally uncoiling this pressure in my stomach.

The door bursts open without even the slightest wiggle of a handle to warn me.

I yank my hand out of my shorts immediately, but it's too late.

"Oh my god. Oh my god! Oh my god!" Kurt gasps covering his eyes. He keeps repeating it, and it gets louder every damn time that he does so.

I jerk him further into the bathroom with my clean hand and I kick the door closed.

"Shut up. Seriously, shut up!" I urge in a frantic whisper.

"Were you? Was that? In my bathroom?" He stammers.

"I locked the door for one ya creep, and it's going to be someone else's bathroom in less than 24 hours anyway. Get over it." I'm more frustrated than I am embarassed.

I don't know what's happening with my body, but it sure as hell isn't some conscious choice that I've made. But Kurt's no saint, I remember a giggling Sadie and Puck catching our well-dressed friend blowing one of my law school friends while sitting on Puck and I's toilet.

"The lock doesn't work!" Kurt's voice bounces into his high-pitched range. I'm confident that dogs are only supposed to be able to hear noises at that frequency.

"So I discovered," I respond without mirth.

A soft knock comes at the door.

"Is everything okay?" _Fuck. It's Quinn._

"Everything is fine," I call into the door.

"Are you sure? I thought I heard Kurt screaming," she presses.

I direct the nastiest glare I can summon in Kurt's direction.

"Yup. All fine in here. Santana was having trouble turning off the sink faucet, so I'm helping her," Kurt lies, and I swear my eyes almost pop out of my head.

"Okay…" Quinn responds skeptically, but I hear her move away from the door anyway.

"Trouble turning off the sink? That's the best you could come up with?!"

"We aren't all successful deception artists!" Kurt shoots back.

"Well you succeeded in making me sound like a fucking dumbass, that's for damn sure," I whisper intensely.

"Maybe you shouldn't be wanking in other people's bathrooms, Santana."

"You better not tell a fucking soul about this."

"I won't. As long as you agree to clean the bathroom once everything is moved out of it."

"Are you trying blackmail me right now? Did you forget what I do for a living? You're delusional; I'm already helping you move, Lady Lips."

"From where I'm standing it looks like you were _helping_ yourself, not me. You know who would be thoroughly tickled by this? Quinn. I'll call her in. Qu-"

My hand claps over his mouth before he can finish. He knows that he has me; I can feel his smile spreading under my hand.

"Fine, but consider this war, Hummel," I concede, dropping my hand from his mouth.

He glances down to my unbuttoned shorts.

"You may want to fix that before we walk out," he advises.

"Oh hell no. You're walking out, and I'm finishing what I started."

"You can't be serious," he regards me incredulously.

"If I have to clean this bathroom, I'm at least getting a fucking orgasm out of it. So get the fuck out," I demand.

"You're absolutely insane." Kurt rotates towards the door.

"Get," I order with gritted teeth.

Once Kurt shuts the door behind him, I lean my back against it this time to prevent any more ambushes. Despite the intrusion, it doesn't take me long at all to send myself spinning over the edge.

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

Puck starts the engine of his truck, and I buckle my seatbelt before curling up in exhaustion against the passenger door. It'll only be a couple more hours before the sun comes up, but the current state of darkness is making me feel even more fatigued.

"I think it's time for me to crash. Do you want me to take you home?" Puck offers, before he sets the air conditioning to blast.

My bed sounds wonderfully tempting, but I know Kurt is probably alone and struggling to clean everything in his apartment.

"Would you take me back to Kurt's instead?" I request.

Sadie fell asleep on her own couch over an hour ago, claiming that she simply needed to "rest her eyes." Sebastian took his leave about ten minutes before midnight. Kurt's co-workers abandoned ship I don't even know how many hours ago. I know that Santana stayed behind at Kurt's while we made our last trip of the night over to Sadie's, but I'm sure that she's home sleeping soundly by now. From what I overheard her saying to Puck, she was awake before dawn this morning. She swung from exhausted to energized like an unpredictable pendulum all day. I wish I could read her like she reads everyone else.

Then again, I don't think I would like much of what I would see if I did. Whenever I watch her interact with someone like Sebastian, I'm struck by what a dangerous stranger she is. And it's not just that. I'm positive that I would have no interest in knowing what was going through her head during our brief ride to U-Haul earlier. She acted like the prospect of one of us on the other's lap was no sort of ordeal. The most physical contact that I had with Santana until that point consisted of a handshake, and an arm grab when I almost toppled over at Britt's party. Yes, I'm an adult, and I gave my best effort to act as casual as she did about it. But then apparently she looked like she was going to get sick because of it? And then she tossed me off of her lap with such forceful urgency at the first opportunity. How could anyone feel good about themselves after that? I must be repulsive to her.

Before Sebastian's commentary, I must admit that I was enjoying the contact. It was marginally uncomfortable due to the heat and the truck's close quarters. But it was nice to feel her skin on mine again. While her amused tone concerning my original pause at the idea irritated me, I was charmed by how willing she was to put herself in that position with me. Reluctantly, I must say that I did find something erotic about my ex-girlfriend breathing beneath me. I was appreciative for the heat, because I'm sure my flushed cheeks would have given my arousal away otherwise. I could have sworn that she gradually grew hotter between her thighs as the ride progressed. I absently wondered how Rachel would feel if she knew that Santana had me on her lap.

All of those thoughts went out the window, however, when Sebastian made the vomiting comment. The moisture building between our legs must have been from her discomfort and disgust. She couldn't bear to be that close to me. Because of that, I was more than ready to separate from her when we reached the U-Haul store, but apparently, to her, getting away from me was practically emergent.

Puck slaps his cheek to make himself more alert, and I'm drawn out of my thoughts. He smells like someone who has been carrying heavy things all day. I'm sure I do as well, although I did far more packing and organizing than I did carrying.

Sadie isn't as strong as I expected her to be. Kurt's strength surprised me. Sebastian refused to carry anything that weighed more than a small child, whereas Santana and Puck were beasts, just as I had expected.

"You don't have to do all of that. Kurt loves the crap out of you," Puck states as he pulls into the street.

Puck spent the last half an hour putting together Kurt's bed in his new room while I tried to fit all of Kurt's food in Sadie's fridge. We haven't had much interaction over the course of the day, but the interaction that we have had has all been positive. I don't know why he would choose now to ruin our streak.

Santana, I noticed, was really quick-tempered with him for a good portion of the early evening.

"You think I'm trying to suck up to him?" I'm not sure that I really want to know, because I am way too beat to fight.

"Nah, I didn't mean for it to come out like that. I meant he'd understand if you needed to go home to get some rest," he clarifies.

"I don't work tomorrow. I have all day to sleep. I don't want him to be stuck cleaning by himself," I sigh against the window.

It's not as if I want to clean, but I know how terrible it is to have to do everything yourself.

"You're a good friend, Quinn."

Out of my peripheral vision I catch a glimpse of his face. He's being genuine. It's a far cry from how he acted towards me in that alleyway months ago.

"Thank you."

"Forgive me, but I'm going to get sappy here for a minute, because I'm sleep deprived. But I want to say that I did mean my apology at the bachelorette party. I _am_ sorry for what I did. I don't think you're a bad person, and to be real, I missed having you around," Puck confesses.

I had questioned whether Puck would remember apologizing. I think that's part of the reason why I didn't take it too seriously. His words really hurt me that night, but I think I'll be able to forgive him if our relationship continues to progress in this direction.

"I _think_ I missed you too, Puck." I flash him a sly smile that he can't see because his eyes are on the road.

"I wasn't listening to what you said to me in that alleyway. I act without thinking sometimes, and she's my sister, you know? I'm honestly not sure if I'd be alive without her. I know I wouldn't be here," he opens up to me. His voice is laden with fatigue. If talking keeps him awake enough to drive then I'm all for it.

"I'm happy that you two have remained close," I relay honestly.

I think it was junior year when Puck and Santana started to become inseparable. She called him out on his misogynistic bullshit, and he showed her that she could have someone to depend on. I think their bond was truly solidified when he helped her fight off her homophobic attackers at Prom.

Santana is this interesting phenomenon. Entering high school, Santana's friendships were almost entirely superficial and primarily based on fear and intimidation. She transformed, and matured at rapid speed, and her relationships deepened. Now, I have a feeling that Santana won't just be Brittany's Maid of Honor (or best woman as she calls it). She'll probably be Puck's and Sadie's, and who knows how many other people. She was probably Rachel's pick before they became entangled.

"Did Sadie or Kurt tell you about my first year out of high school?" He glances over at me. He appears far more awake now.

"No." There have been a few offhanded comments about Puck that I didn't understand. I figured they were inside jokes of some sort. I never pressed to learn more about Puck's past, and I have no idea how Puck came to live in NYC. Honestly, it doesn't seem like his style of place.

"I hung out here with Santana and her mom temporarily when you two called it quits. And then, like the genius I am, I had this idea come to me, and no one could talk me out of it. I was sure that I could make it in Last Vegas with my guitar and my crooner pipes. I could party and perform, and I'd never have to grow up. It was the perfect plan," he details with obvious self-deprecation.

I could imagine 18-year-old Puck deciding that he was going to make it big with little to no effort on his part.

"It didn't work out. Big surprise. I got caught up with the wrong sort of people instead. I couch and floor surfed, and sometimes I slept in my jeep when I couldn't find a place to bunk for the night. I spent the money that my mom saved for me to go to trade school with on drugs. I sold my jeep for next to nothing when that money ran out. It was like one long one very bad trip." He frowns at the road ahead of him.

Puck can be unpredictable at times, and he makes some dumb choices but I never imagined that he would get involved with drugs. It makes my heart ache to think of the conditions he must have been living in.

"It's fuzzy, but I remember the day when Santana showed up. She was so quiet. I was high enough that I thought that maybe her fancy college had changed her. Maybe they muted that sharp tongue of hers. Or worse, that she fell back down the hole that she was in after the two of you split. But really, I only believed that she was hallucination. She looked so out of place in my hell, you know? Beautiful, and familiar. Like home. She didn't look real standing next to my stained mattress," his voice lifts as if he's in a dark dreamy state.

I grip the handle of the door tightly. I fear for where this is going. And it makes me sick to think about Santana dealing with her out of control best friend so soon after our break up. How panicked and distressed she must have been.

"I was the failure that everyone always told me I would be. _Stupid Puck. He'll never amount to anything._ I was convincing myself that they were right, while Santana was convincing her mother to track me down. Why Ms. Lopez allowed her daughter to knowingly fly out to walk straight into a drug den I'll never know. She's a complicated lady. But I wasn't hallucinating. Santana really came for me."

Usually I feel a sense of guilt when people share personal stories about Santana's past, but I get the impression that this is definitely more of Puck's story than it is Santana's.

I'm not surprised that Santana came for him. I'm not remotely surprised that she would use every resource she had to find Puck if she thought he was in trouble.

"Do you want to know my least favorite part of this story? It was when Santana tried to help me up from the floor to take me out of there, and the other guys there, well, I owed them some real money. They thought they could take it in trade from her or something, or she looked like someone who had money, or maybe they just didn't want her to take me away without squaring my debt. Whatever the reason, they went at her, and I was too fucking high to do anything to stop them," he spits out the last revelation angrily. His knuckles tighten on the steering wheel.

I can faintly feel the bile rising in my throat. It was so long ago, and Santana is obviously fine now, but I can't stand the thought of anyone hurting her.

"When I came to, I was sitting inside of a fucking shopping cart that Santana had swiped from those guys. She had put her _super sweet_ girly ass sunglasses over my eyes, and she was just sitting on a bench on the strip, flipping through a magazine, filing her nails, waiting for me to wake up. Not a mark on her."

He laughs, and I echo his action, although my laugh is mostly one of relief. It's a great image, however, to think of Puck's large body squeezed into a grocery cart. Santana is strong, but I still can't imagine how she could have carried a passed out Puck out of that place. Even if she could lift him, I doubt she could have made it far. The cart was probably a necessity.

"She took me back with her to New York. She got me clean. She made me feel like I was worth something. Every so often, I get that image in my head though. Where I know that she's in danger, I know that people are going after her, and I'm paralyzed. You'd think I'd remember how that story turned out. Santana didn't need me to save her; she saved me and herself. But yeah, like I said, how I treated you was wrong." Puck clears his throat.

It's a roundabout way of explaining himself, but I get it. Puck was never especially skilled with his words. He's always been more of the physical type. But I know how much he loves Santana, and it's apparent how heartbreakingly helpless he feels when she's harmed. I don't think that he was right to approach me at the bar like he did, but I think I definitely understand it better now.

"That's why I had to step away, Puck. It's because I needed to know that I was worth it. I needed to know for myself that I deserved to be who I wanted to be rather than the person that everyone else wanted. Being loved by her was such a _gift_, but it also lured me into this false sense of identity. I didn't need to be myself. I could be the business student with perfect grades, the sorority girl, the dutiful daughter. It was okay to be those things even when they didn't make me happy, because _she_ made me happy. It's complicated because before I fell in love with her I thought happiness was achieved through doing what other people wanted. But through falling for her, and being with her, she made me realize that it wasn't real happiness before that I was feeling." It spills out of me without effort. I think it's the most I've said about it to anyone since coming back. I didn't expect for it to be Puck, but all of the sudden, I feel safe. He shared one of his most personal stories with me, and I'm touched by that.

"But I didn't walk away thinking that I was going to change my life for the better. That came with time. I walked away because I had to do it to survive, to function," I clarify.

We arrive in front of Kurt's building, and Puck shifts his truck into park. He twists in his seat to face me, his shirt stained with sweat.

"I lied to you that night when I told you that Santana is happy. I don't think she is," he discloses.

This is getting into guilt territory. I have no right to hear such things unless she tells me herself, which I highly doubt that will ever happen. However, he looks so lost and concerned, that I can't bring myself to stop the conversation.

"Because of her work?"

"It could be. I don't think I've ever seen her as happy as she was when she was with you, but she's had happy years for sure. The past couple have been different. I know she is conflicted about helping the cheaters, drug dealers, and crooked politicians. But, I don't even recognize her sometimes. It's hard on all of us, because Santana's the person you call when you have a problem. But when it's Santana, who do you call?"

I squash any hope that threatens to rise in my chest at Puck's statement about when Santana was the happiness. It probably has very little to do with the influence I had in her life then compared to the influence that Rachel has now. I'm confident that her work is the factor that explains whatever difference there may be.

"I'm sorry that I wasn't there for you to call, Puck," I apologize.

"I think I understand why you weren't now. My ears are working tonight." He tugs at his right earlobe with a good-natured smile.

"I'm going to hug you even though you smell like a construction worker," I notify him, scooting closer to him in the cab.

"You're cleared for approach." His smile broadens, and he opens his arms to accept me.

I half-hold my breath while we hug. His arms feel just as big around me as I remember them feeling, and I do find a familiar comfort in his embrace.

"You're not going to disappear on us again are you?" he breathes into my hair.

I pull back to make eye contact with him.

"Never," I vow.

I wish Puck a good night, and he wishes me good luck as I crawl out of his truck.

I climb the steps, praying to all that is good that Kurt forgot to pack all of his coffee beans. I'll swallow them whole, I don't care.

The apartment is mostly dark when I enter it, save for the light emanating from the bathroom, and a solitary lamp in the middle of the living room floor. Kurt is snoring softly right next to his eccentric lamp. His head is resting on a pile of, hopefully clean, rags. It appears as though the carpet has been vacuumed, although there are a few scuffs on the walls that need to be scrubbed out.

I head into the bedroom in search of the cleaning supplies, but movement in the bathroom catches my eye. I halt, leaning back to view inside, and sure enough Santana is groggily scouring the wall of the shower, shifting her hips lazily to the music playing from her phone that's resting on the bathroom counter. After my conversation with Puck, there's nothing that I want more than to hug her.

She jumps, startled at the realization of my presence, and it looks as though she's spread her legs instinctively into what I would guess is some sort of fighting pose. And just like that, her back foot slips and she begins to fall backwards.

I move forward immediately despite the fact that I know that I can't reach her in time to do any good. To my relief, she catches herself with her hands on the sides of the tub before her body can hit the bottom.

"That's one way to wake up," she mutters bitterly before popping herself up to a standing position once again.

She's breathtaking. Tendrils of her hair have fallen from her ponytail to frame her face. I'm sure they're bothering her, but she won't fix it because there's no way that she'll risk getting any of those chemicals in her precious hair. She's stripped herself down to her red tank top. It's always been her best color. My eyes are drawn to every flex of muscle in her arms, and the sliver of her stomach and side that is revealed every time she raises them.

And those jeans shorts. Those shouldn't even be legal. Her butt is barely covered and there are seemingly countless inches of leg on display.

I can see how spent she is, and her clothes are spotted with water and various unknown substances, but if anything, the imperfections on exhibit only make her more appealing.

"Good thing you're part ninja," I tease with a smile.

"You should really announce yourself if you're going to make a habit of entering people's apartments in the middle of the night," she blames me without any sign of animosity.

Thoughts of our truck ride threaten to ruin whatever not entirely unpleasant mood I'm in, so I push them aside.

"I'm practicing for my life of crime in case the whole art thing doesn't work out," I jest. I don't think I'd make a very good criminal.

Santana tosses her sponge down onto the side of the tub, facing me, instead of her task.

"Is Puck here too?"

"No. He dropped me off," I inform her.

She brushes the hair away from her eyes with the back of her hand.

"You two are getting along," she observes with an unreadable expression.

"I forgot how sweet he can be," I admit.

"Yeah. He's a big softie," she agrees with a slight trace of a smile.

Feeling my nerves climb under her gaze, I glance at the can in her hand.

"Santana?"

"Yeah?"

"When's the last time you cleaned a bathroom?"

"Uh, I use the same maid service as my mom, and she sorta still picks up the bill. We have to _clean up_ at times for work, but I've never been on bathroom duty for it. I'm a kitchen expert." Her vague emphasis on "clean up" rattles me. I'm not sure that I want to know what she's referring to when she says it.

"I figured as much. The bottle you're using is for counter surfaces. This one," I retrieve a taller can from the bucket resting on the floor, "is for bathtubs and showers."

Santana was never without a maid when we were growing up. My parents had them off and on, but my mom fired them every time. She insisted that she could do a better job, and that keeping a clean home was her role and not a task for some stranger. My mother did most of the cleaning, but she had me do chores on occasion. Since leaving the dorms, I've been responsible for any needed bathroom cleaning.

"Shit," she curses, popping the cap on the can to toss back into the bucket. I had predicted that she would argue with me, or make up some sort of excuse. She must be really tired.

"I'll take care of the counters and toilet while you tackle that with the right product," I suggest. There are other things I could busy myself with in the apartment, I'm sure, but she obviously needs help. And selfishly, I want to be near her, and she seems friendly enough now that I'm not on top of her.

"Take yourself to the kitchen first. There's a pitcher of iced coffee that I conned the neighbor out of earlier. You look like you've smoked an entire bag of weed," she dictates referring to my admittedly heavy eyes.

I'm sure she's right, my eyelids threaten to slip close at any moment. I head into the kitchen, and I return with two full cups. Santana's spraying down the floor of the tub with the proper can. I wait patiently for her to finish so I can hand her the cup. I notice that she's wearing rubber flippers on her feet.

"Don't judge. I swiped them from Kurt's snorkeling shit," she defends, catching my amused face.

"You should be wearing gloves, Santana. Those chemicals are horrible for your skin," I educate.

It's familiar, this back and forth of ours. She makes sure that I'm caffeinated, I make sure that she doesn't hurt her skin.

"Great. I just got this manicure yesterday. Kurt passed out before I could ask him a single question," Santana complains.

"I'll grab us some while you wash your hands."

I take a drink from my cup before placing both of them on the bathroom counter. Before I've fully exited the room, Santana's voice stills me.

"You ever feel like when we're together it's one long déjà vu feeling?"

"A little. Something like that." I don't know how to describe the feeling. Déjà vu isn't accurate, but I don't have a better word for it.

"I wonder how much time it'll take for that to go away," Santana mumbles absentmindedly.

I study her face for an extended moment, while her attention is focused on the shower wall. Unable to discern her meaning, I leave in search of the gloves.

* * *

"Should we wake him?" I question, peering at the slumbering man in the living room.

For some reason, I feel like giggling. I blame the lack of sleep. With our powers combined (although Santana relied heavily on my guidance), the apartment is acceptably clean.

I've had a peculiarly good night.

"No. Let him sleep for now. I plugged his phone in and turned the volume up full blast. If he's not up in a couple hours, I'll call him." She gestures to the phone resting dangerously close to our sleeping friend's eardrum.

"That'll be pleasant for him," I respond sarcastically. I'm tempted to move the device to a more humane distance away from Kurt's ear.

"He deserves it. Trust me," Santana compels, and I'm far too drowsy to ask questions.

We quietly leave the apartment, well I quietly leave the apartment, Santana doesn't seem to be concerned with interrupting Kurt's dreams.

As we head down the stairs, I release a barely audible laugh. I can barely lift my arms right now, but Santana's shorts are still affecting me. And my squinty eyes are roaming the muscles and curves of her lower back as we descend. It's ridiculous.

I retrieve my phone to search for the nearest subway stop once we hit the sidewalk.

"What are you doing?" Santana nods in the direction of my phone, as I mindlessly follow her down the sidewalk.

"I'm attempting to figure out where I'm going to catch the subway," I answer without looking up.

"It's an unholy hour. You're not taking the subway," Santana asserts, seemingly without leaving any room for argument.

"I'm a big girl, Santana. I've survived years without you and everything," I retort.

I regret the words instantly when they leave my mouth. It was incredibly insensitive, and I brace myself for Santana to bite back, and for her to throw all of her walls back up.

Extraordinarily, the harsh words never come.

"Let me take you home. You'll get to bed much sooner that way," she implores.

"You drove here?" I peer up from my phone.

"Yeah Puck and I drove separate. I knew I would last longer than him," she winks, and abruptly stops walking.

I feel as though I must have fallen asleep at some point in Kurt's apartment, and this is some oddly themed dream. It's one thing for Santana to insist on giving me a ride home, it's another thing entirely for her to make a joke like that and wink at me. It's a joke a friend would make.

She ignores my baffled expression, and hands me a helmet. Now, I'm even more confused. That is until I recognize that we've stopped right beside a red motorcycle. It clicks.

"You drive a motorcycle? Finally gave into the lesbian cliché?" I laugh in disbelief. I know Puck works at a motorcycle shop, but I never expected that Santana would purchase one.

She doesn't seem to take offense.

"Fuck yeah, pantsuits and motorcycles. It's such a shame that it's not safe to ride with my Birkenstocks on. You wouldn't believe how many different pairs of socks I've tried to wear with them to make it work," she feigns disappointment.

I laugh at the imagery she provides, although I can't manage to summon a mental picture of Santana in Birkenstocks.

"First time?" She motions with her head in the direction of the bike.

"Yes." I swallow.

_God, what's wrong with me._ My mind immediately defaults to how Santana was my first time for _so_ many things.

"Don't worry. I'll be gentle," she assures me with a smirk.

I could strangle something right now.

"Do you always make this many sexual innuendos?"

"Maybe when I haven't slept in almost 24 hours," she shrugs nonchalantly.

She retrieves something from the side of the bike, and tosses the mass in my direction.

"Pants," I stupidly observe as I look down at the crumpled garment in my hand.

And with that, I remember the first night Santana and I spent together after we became an "official" couple.

* * *

_Being in her room feels different now. It's not suffocating exactly, but it's heavy with expectation._

_"Are you worried about sleeping over now that we're together?" Santana inquires with a soft expression._

_It's not precisely that. I've slept next to Santana hundreds of times, but she isn't just Santana anymore; she's my girlfriend. My far more experienced than I am girlfriend. Part of me wishes that she had just initiated sex when we were kissing for hours downstairs. I wanted it. I know that I did. I still do, but now my head is in the way._

_"Kinda," I whisper loud enough for Santana to hear._

_"Are your parents okay with you coming home this late? I can walk you down to your car," she offers. She's being really patient, and I can tell that she's doing her best to hide her disappointment._

_"I've only had sex three times and it was just with Finn," I blurt. Okay, so I'm nervous. The experience with sex that I do have is pathetic, and I have zero experience with women. Whereas Santana oozes sexual confidence, and from what I hear, she has every reason to do so._

_"Okay…I'm sorry you had to go through that?" she forces a humorous smile; I know that Finn isn't her favorite conversation topic._

_The ache of my lips distract me momentarily, and I reach up to touch them with my fingertips. From what I saw in the mirror, they're red, and probably swollen as well. I can't get enough of kissing Santana now that she is mine._

_I trust that sex with Santana will be even better, I'm just not sure if I'll be able to make it an enjoyable experience for her._

_I smile shyly, as she studies my face._

_"Wait, do you think I'm going to try to have sex with you tonight?" she asks with a tone colored with indignation._

_I'm on the defense immediately. What the hell is she trying to say?_

_"Is that such a ridiculous assumption for me to make?" I throw my hands on my hips._

_"Yes, it actually is," she confirms._

_My stomach drops in that decidedly unpleasant way._

_"Do you not want to…?" My face falls in rejection and I glance away._

_Apparently, my lack of experience is quite the sex deterrent._

_"Are you kidding me? Of course I want to, Quinn, more than I have ever wanted to, but I want to take my time with you," her voice drips with obvious sincerity._

_It's sweet. She's kind in a way that mere months ago, I would have never expected that she could be. I love the romantic idea of 'taking our time', although in reality when she kisses me, when she touches me, there's nothing that I would love more than to feel her naked skin against mine._

_And when she's wearing shorts like those, waiting seems like an impossibility._

_"Would you put on pants then?" I ask quietly, my smile returning to my face._

_Santana cocks an eyebrow at me. I truly cannot believe how she doesn't recognize how sexy her long, toned legs are._

_"Please, Santana. I've never wanted anyone like this before, and your legs are just…they're too much for me if you want to wait."_

_She laughs throatily, tugging open one of her draws to grab a pair of pajama pants. She steps into them without argument, but without notice, I'm hit in the chest with a flying pair of pants. I catch them before they fall, and I glance up at Santana in confusion._

_"I'm not the only one with legs here, Blondie."_

* * *

"You don't want to get burned. Hurts like a bitch," Santana explains, transporting my thoughts back into the present.

She pulls hers on, while I step into mine. I squish my head into the helmet, feeling absolutely ridiculous as I do so.

I'd probably be significantly more nervous if I wasn't completely tuckered out.

She swings her leg over to straddle the machine, and gestures me forward, assisting me in doing the same.

Before we take off, she guides my arms around her middle, wordlessly telling me to hold on.

I don't squeal, yelp, or scream as we seem to lurch powerfully into the street.

I'm focused on how Santana's toned stomach tenses and shifts under my hands. Eventually, I begin to enjoy how the wind feels against my clothes and skin. I flip the face guard visor thingy on my helmet, just in case Santana is saying something to me that I can't hear.

She's not. But now I'm inhaling the chlorine and tropical fruit mixture from Santana that's blowing directly into my face.

The sun begins to rise in front of us, shading the street and buildings in soft hues of orange and red light.

I memorize every passing detail that I can. I'm determined to paint this scene tomorrow (technically today) at whichever comical hour that I eventually wake up.

My mouth cracks into unrestrained smile, and I bow down to rest the cheek of my helmet against Santana's back. Santana offered me a ride, on her motorcycle, knowing that my arms were going to be wrapped around her, and she isn't showing any signs of nausea or disgust.

Maybe it really was the heat in the truck earlier, just like she said.

She slows the motorcycle to a stop in front of my building before I have even recognized that we're in my neighborhood.

I use her shoulders to leverage my awkward dismount, and she flashes me an encouraging smile.

_Now what?_

_Do I try to give her a hug goodbye?_

"Thanks for taking me home." I feel 16-years-old again, only even less sure of myself somehow. I've never been one to shy away from making moves. Often, I haven't had to be the initiator of contact, but I don't mind doing so when the other person seems hesitant.

Santana doesn't appear hesitant or unsure of herself, however. She looks like a person who is simply waiting to make sure that her passenger makes it safely inside of her apartment.

"It's nothing. It isn't that far out of my way," she minimizes.

"Okay, well, goodnight Santana," I bid her. Internally cursing myself for my uncharacteristic conversation ineptness.

"More like good morning," she gently corrects.

I nod, as if it's the appropriate thing to do, before I take a couple steps back, and in the direction of my building.

"Yeah, I suppose so," I agree.

_What the hell am I saying? What the hell am I doing?_ This isn't like me. I'm confident, and self-assured. I don't flounder like this in social situations.

"Okay, night!" I call back to her as I turn to enter my building before I can make a bigger fool of myself.

"You already said that." I hear her chuckle from behind me, and I dismiss her commentary with a wave of my hand.

_Jesus Christ, I need some sleep._


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter XII**

**A/N: A couple of my lovelies tag-teamed the beta mission this time for me. So, to ItsCalledALanceHello and ckeller48 you both are extraordinary individuals and I appreciate you very much. **

**Gosh, I feel like I've said this before but it literally amazes me every single time that I go through my reviews that I have so many engaged individuals who care enough to leave such thoughtful and passionate feedback. Y'all make this process so very rewarding. **

**Special hello to Grilled Cheesus, long time no see friend :) Thanks for coming back. **

* * *

**Santana's POV**

I scan through my database alerts as my client works through the form I've given him.

A message on office chat from my assistant, Beverly, pops up on my screen.

**Beverly: There is a Mr. Tyler Wallace here to see you.**

**Me: I don't know anyone by that name, and I'm with a client. Did he say why he's here?**

**Beverly: He says he has an invitation to give you, and he would also like me to tell you that he's ready to talk about John Quincy Adams.**

**Me: Wait, is he about 5'8" and does he look like he's seen one too many 2 Chainz videos?**

**Beverly: I don't know what that means, but the height is accurate.**

**Me: Is he a kid?**

**Beverly: Yes.**

**Me: Shit, I do know him. Don't send him back here. I'll come out. Will you bring fresh coffee in for my client?**

**Beverly: Right away.**

"Please excuse me, I have to take care of something for a few minutes. Beverly will be in here shortly with some fresh coffee for you. In the meantime, I need you to think carefully about what you can remember from that weekend," I instruct, and my client acknowledges me with a motion of his head before I leave the conference room.

I pass a coffee-toting Beverly in the hallway on my way to the front desk area. Sure enough, when I emerge from the hallway Tyler is standing by Beverly's desk, wearing the same stupid hat that he always does. Looking at it now, it almost looks like it's too small for his head.

"Tyler, you can't be here," I chastise him.

_How the hell did he find me?_

"I'll be outta here in a hot minute, I swear. I only came to make sure you got this." He hands me a colorful piece of thick card stock.

"What is this?" I flip it over in my hand.

"It's an invite to see that wall I been workin' at. I was hoping that you might be able to spare some time to check it out?" His eyes flicker back and forth between me and the floor in shy expectation.

"I'll have to see, Tyler. My work hours are crazy," I offer honestly.

It's sweet that he wants me there when he barely knows me, but I don't want to make a promise that I can't keep. I don't want to disappoint him. From the look on his face, however, I can see that I already have.

"Ah ya, nah I get it. You busy. It's nothin'." He stares down at his shoes as if they are the most fascinating things in the room.

"I'll do my best, okay?" I mean it. I can't guarantee that I'll come, but I can guarantee my best effort.

"Yeah?" A glimmer of hope is back, and I can see that he is fighting to keep his cool.

"I promise. My very best," I vow.

"Sweet." He tries to nod casually, but his excitement is palpable.

He slips his hands into his pockets to keep them still.

"Well I have to go back to work, but I'll walk you to the elevators. How did you find me here anyway?"

It's a short distance to the elevators, but I find myself enjoying his company. It's easy to be around him. Maybe it's because he doesn't really know anything about me. He sees me at face value. Unlike everyone else in my life, he doesn't have any shred of an indication of what I do here. It's nice that his vision of me isn't colored by that.

"Man, haven't you ever heard of keepin' the mystery alive?" he shoots back.

I laugh, and he grins as if he takes great pride in being the cause of my laughter.

"Careful, Little Man. Secrets are dangerous." I pull his hat down over his eyes as we reach the elevators. It takes more effort than I expect to shift the cap; it's clearly too tight.

"Is this the only hat you have or what?" I mock playfully, reaching around him to press the elevator button.

He adjusts the cap so he can see me properly again.

"For now, yeah, but I got my eye on this Yankees cap that I seen in this display by that Hebrew college on Broadway. I watch my sisters for my mom, so I can't work, but she says that maybe she can swing it for Christmas," he explains without any sign of entitlement.

Christmas is two seasons away. I immediately feel bad for saying anything. I've had many issues in my life due to my absentee parents, but money was never a concern. If I wanted anything material, it was mine. I had one of the nicest cars at my high school, and I had enough designer clothing that I could have gone months without wearing the same outfit twice. I can only imagine how very different Tyler's childhood is from mine.

"This one may be cutting off some circulation to your brain. That's not good for school, kid," I caution him with an apologetic smile.

The elevator doors open, revealing my pissed off looking mother. Her meeting must have gone poorly, either that or someone got in her way in the lobby. Who knows? She stands in front of the doors as they close, preventing Tyler's entry. She silently gives him a scrutinizing once over. I can practically hear him swallowing next to me. Sometimes, I wonder if I'll ever have even a fraction of the presence that she has.

"What case is this?" My mom sweeps her hand out in Tyler's direction.

We have a policy here about visitors. Basically, we're not allowed to have them, and for good reason; we constantly have influential and easily recognizable people in our office. Not to mention that there are many things that we don't want anyone from the general public to overhear.

"He's not here for a case. This is my friend, Tyler. Tyler, this is Maribel Lopez," I introduce. Her eyes narrow at my words, and with that I'm sure she's going to have a conversation with me about this later.

My mother formally reaches for his hand to shake, and Tyler takes it after some hesitation.

"Damn, does everyone here have the same last name?" He looks over at me in surprise. I have to hide my smile with a twist of my head.

"I'm her mother," she educates him.

Tyler straightens his back immediately. It's cute. He was obviously intimidated by her before he was aware of our relation, but now he's shifting into polite mode.

"My bad. I didn't mean no disrespect by my swearing, ma'am," he apologizes.

"Your mother doesn't let you talk like that does she?" my mother asks sternly.

Is _damn_ really that bad for a 15-year-old to say? I said far worse at that age, but I suppose mom scolded me for it every time I said anything like that around her.

"Oh ma is real fond of the soap. She carries it in her purse and everything." He makes a mouth scrubbing motion with his hand.

Mom chuckles and her face softens at his admission. _Does this kid charm everyone he meets? _I wouldn't doubt it.

"Maybe I should have tried that tactic with your dirty sailor's mouth, mija." She winks at me.

I shake my head at her in response. There's no fucking way that such a thing would have gone over well with me as a kid.

"Is there a reason you have this young man in the office?" she inquires, getting back to business.

"He's here to invite me to see his art project, but he knows not to come here again, right Tyler?" I check with him, making effective eye contact with him so he knows how serious I am.

"Never again, ma'am, but where do I find ya when I'm ready to ask your blessin' to marry your daughter?" he addresses my mother.

I laugh incredulously. My god, this kid is bold.

"By _ready_ I hope you mean when you're no longer jailbait," I interject, emphasizing with my hands.

My mother seems thoroughly entertained by him. She's always loved kids. In small doses, that is.

"Age ain't nothing but a number, and I'll be turning 16 two days before the wall reveal," he recites with a bend of his head.

I can't remember the last time I laughed this much. I think it may have been the night when Quinn and I cleaned Kurt's apartment. We were both loopy and exhausted, and we kept going back and forth imitating how Sadie and Kurt were going to interact as roommates. Sadie was going to be breaking Kurt's eccentric antique shit with her sexcapades, and Kurt was going to force Sadie to buy the most expensive headphones that he could find to block out the noises of her visitors. Kurt was going to drive Sadie up the wall with his sewing equipment and his constant insistence on listening to every musical known to humankind. Sadie would step on one too many needles before she blew up about how music is supposed to make you want to _dance_; it's not supposed to make you wish for death.

"I like this one, Santana," my mom appreciates.

"See? She already approves. Ma always says that _you shouldn't ask a girl's father for permission._ She says_ the mom be the one who grew the girl's heart; you need ta convince her that you got the goods to care for it proper_," he quotes, and my mother looks as though she's in love.

I know the feminist in her hates the idea of anyone having a say in who a woman marries apart from the woman herself, but no one is immune to this kid's charms.

"She sounds like a very intelligent woman," she compliments.

"She is, ma'am," he confirms politely.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Tyler, but I have work to attend to, as does Santana here." She reaches to shake the young man's hand once again.

"I got you, ma'am. I'll bounce," he agrees, pressing the button for the elevator when my mother walks away.

"Bye, Tyler," I wave goodbye to him and he steps into the elevator.

"I'll be seeing you, pretty mama," he promises as the doors close.

I scan the invitation as I head back to the conference room. After reading the front, I open the invite to find a short paragraph written in a messy script.

_I know you got bigger and better things to be doing. You dress all important probably 'cause you is the smartest and swaggiest lady I ever saw. So I know you busy, but you didn't walk by no more so you didn't get to see how sick the wall looks now. Miss F put my piece on the front page of the website and she said I should start painting on my own. I'm no Da Vinci but it'd sure mean something to me to have you see it._

_much love,_

_Ty_

And with that, I'm determined to be there, no matter what.

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

The reveal is winding down. Many of the parents have already headed home with their kids, and Ms. Clemens is the only teacher who has stuck around.

I'm elated with how well things have gone today. The parents and other family members were so impressed with the wall, and it felt amazing to watch the student's faces light up as they proudly showed off the portions of the work that they were each responsible for. It baffles me that I almost chose another life entirely. I'd be at a desk at my father's main office right now, instead of here witnessing the positive impact that art has had on these young lives.

I'm touched by how many of my friends came to support me. Kurt stopped by while he was running an errand for work, and showered me with many compliments. Mercedes video chatted me so I could give her a tour of the wall. Puck and Sadie are still here; Sadie is sticking around until Puck takes her to the airport. She has a plane to catch because she has to be on set for her new job tomorrow. I caught her earlier pouring contents from a flask into her cup of punch. I told her that if any of the parents or children saw her that I was going to kick her ass. She claimed it was "medicinal rum" for her flight anxiety and told me that I should drink more to treat the pain caused by the stick that's lodged up my ass. Puck choked on his cookie when she said that.

Apparently, she's going to be dancing and assisting with choreography for a movie musical that Rachel Berry is co-starring in. Sadie is excited about it, and she promised to text me about Rachel's diva antics at every opportunity. I'm relatively sure that Puck is only here because he's Sadie's ride, but he's been more than decent to me lately, so I don't mind his presence. My friends Amelia, Chelsea, and Caleb haven't taken off yet either.

When the Director of the Urban Art Project made her appearance she was absolutely awestruck. She assured me that if she can gather the necessary funding that she'd like to renew my contract at the end of the summer. I would love nothing more than to be back in more classrooms come fall. I know I'm going to miss these specific groups of kids, however; if my contract is renewed, unfortunately, I'll be in new classes with different kids.

I have a meeting with the Director next week. I'm going to talk to her about the possibility of an extension program for the kids who participated this year. I've been thinking that if we get extra money that perhaps the kids who want to stay involved could enlist in a mentoring program for the new students.

"I'm sorry baby, but we can't stay much longer. Your sisters are hungry, and I need to get ready for work," I hear Tyler's mother say to my left, while she bounces a fussy toddler on her hip.

Tyler made me promise to send Santana an invitation to the event. It felt a little strange, but I asked Sadie for Santana's address, and I sent the invitation anyway. I thought about inserting a note into the envelope explaining that it was Tyler who was requesting her attendance, but that felt immature. But I can only imagine how strange Santana thought it was to get an invitation given our limited interaction. Sure, the last time we were together, we got along remarkably well, but I don't think that we're automatically friends because of it. Maybe I should have sent an invite by email (assuming that Sadie would have given me that as well). Snail mail seems so formal these days.

But now, knowing that Tyler has his hopes up that Santana is going to show, I am cursing myself for not inserting that note nor attaching a message to an email. Originally, my motivation for doing so was to prevent Santana from thinking that I was the one who wanted her here. It's silly that I even care, I know, but a part of me feels as though I could scare her away at any moment. I'm disappointed in myself, because I should have been focused on Tyler. I completely bypassed the fact that Santana would have been far more likely to come had she known that it was important to _Tyler_ for her to come.

She's only had maybe five conversations with the kid, and yet, she has the ability to break his heart. _Typical Santana._

I notice that Ms. Clemens has begun to clear the refreshment table, and I head over to the display table to do the same. I smile down at the binders of pictures, one for each student group; they document each group's journey from the lessons in the classroom to their finished portion of the wall. There are quotes interwoven, and small student bios on every few pages. It's beautifully done, if I do say so myself.

A car door slams harshly, and my head rises instinctively at the noise. Santana strides hastily across the street, as a big black SUV (one that is identical to the vehicles that sat here for a couple weeks after the Rachel incident) speeds off in the direction of Santana's office.

Unwelcome butterflies swarm in my stomach, as her eyes connect with mine; she's heading directly at me, her heels clicking aggressively on the sidewalk when she hits it.

She stops on the other side of the display table, and her eyes leave mine, her head jerking around like a momma bear that has lost her cubs. I watch as her mesmerizing brown eyes still, focusing on something behind me.

She exhales loudly, and some of her tension seems to escape her body.

"Oh thank fuck he's still here." She breathes another sigh of relief.

_He? Does she somehow know that Tyler is the reason for her invitation?_ I glance over my shoulder, and sure enough, that's who her eyes have halted on.

When I turn my head back to her, I'm struck by her appearance, and find myself without words to respond to her.

Her hair is down, but it has expanded, by my guess from the heat. Most of her makeup has been rubbed off. She's in a skirt suit, but it's not in its usually impeccable state; it looks as if she has either walked right through an active construction site or spent the afternoon in a mild dust storm. She's not wearing hose, which is odd; she had hose on every single time she walked by the job site in one of her skirt suits.

Seemingly, she gives up on any verbal reaction from me, and moves around the table to approach Tyler.

I halt her progress with a light touch of my fingertips on the forearm of her jacket. She flinches, and her body tenses once more before she regards me with curious eyes.

For some reason, I'm not hurt by her flinching reaction to my touch; I have the sinking feeling that it has absolutely nothing to do with me. I remove my hand from her anyway.

"Is everything okay?" I whisper softly.

Ms. Clemens is the closest person to us, and she's more than a few yards away, but whispering feels appropriate regardless.

It's the exact same phrasing that I used when I knocked on Kurt's bathroom door on his move out day because I swore I heard him yelling. He made up some bullshit about Santana not being able to turn off the sink faucet by herself. It was a terrible lie, but I've since forgotten to ask him what was really going on in there.

Briefly, her face distorts into a conflicted expression, but predictably, it's replaced by an indecipherable expression within seconds. I think it's possibly progress in some form, because it means that she was at least tempted to tell me the truth.

"Yes," she lies. She lies like it's nothing at all. Her eyes don't so much as shudder as she peers straight into mine.

I wonder how often she lies, how many people she's lied to, how many lies she has created for others. She's not on the clock, and yet, it's so effortless for her to do. Does she lie to her friends? Does she lie to Rachel? Or does Rachel get to see the entirety of the darkness that others only she flashes of?

I don't know Santana anymore, but I can't help but be concerned. It's not my fault that this stranger looks exactly like my first love.

I'm beginning to realize what our friends are so worried about; I'm sure they've seen far more of this kind of thing from her than I have.

I can't hold her gaze anymore, it feels too wrong, so my eyes flash down. I feel as though she can see everything in my eyes, whereas I can see nothing in hers.

A bright red droplet splashes onto the concrete. I retrace its course with my eyes, just in time to witness another globule slowly glide from beneath the sleeve of her jacket, and coast down her palm. It builds speed before falling from the tip of her middle finger.

Suddenly, I'm acutely aware of the blood coursing through my own veins, swimming around my hammering heart.

"Is that blood?!"

She groans, mumbling something in Spanish which I believe has something to do with ruining her expensive suit. I want to shout at her. I want to scream. I want to demand to know what the fuck happened to the girl I once knew. There is blood dripping down her goddamn sleeve and she's so blasé about it that her only qualm is her fucking suit.

But I swallow it all down because we're not out here alone.

Sadie appears beside Santana, and she interrupts whatever string of curses that Santana has been heatedly spewing. I think she is ranting about how work is going to pick up the dry cleaning bill for this or else, but my Spanish is sorely out of practice.

"Blood? Are we discussing our cycles over here ladies? You two have sure made progress if you're getting that personal," Sadie jokes, resting her elbow on the shoulder of Santana's non-leaking arm.

"Please no," Puck begs, from my side of the table.

I'm faintly aware that Santana is shooting eye daggers at Puck, but all I can really think about is where the blood is coming from.

"I know, I know. It sucks. You gals have gone into so much detail about how much it sucks. Don't whip your feminism out," he backtracks.

I'm not sure Sadie is even listening, because she has started to dust Santana's shoulder and arm off with her hand. I'm trying not to focus on the intermittent cascade of beads, because I don't want to draw attention to it; I'm almost positive that attention is not what Santana wants right now.

I'm not positive that I should care what Santana wants, however.

I don't know what the proper protocol is for when your ex-girlfriend shows up to your work event looking as though she's been through multiple rings of Hell, and she's bleeding from who knows where.

We always had a first aid kit on site when we were working, but I don't think any of us thought to bring one today.

Despite my best efforts, my eyes flicker again to Santana's sleeve. Sadie is digressing about who knows what as a drop emerges. I peel my eyes away, but I'm too late. Puck's eyes have followed mine, and now he's staring resolutely at the mobile red spot.

Santana's eyes steel the moment she feels his gaze.

"Is that yours?" he questions in an accusatory tone.

I'm perturbed by it. For one, he doesn't appear to be worried about her. At least not right away. For two, I never thought that the blood may not be hers. I suppose because it looks fresh, and because I can't even begin to imagine what kind of mess would have to be under her jacket for it to drop like that and be someone else's.

"Yes, Puck. The blood is mine," Santana retorts scornfully.

Puck's thought is in my head now, and I can't rid myself of it. I'm unnerved by the fact that he would jump to that conclusion. How many times has he watched her come home stained by someone else's blood?

_Who is she?_

"Hey, I wasn't trying to say-" he fights to clarify. There is concern etched on his features now.

"Don't," Santana snaps.

Sadie has removed herself from Santana's personal bubble, and has taken at least two steps to the side. Her eyes can't seem to stay away from Santana's sleeve either. She appears notably disquieted whenever her eyes bounce between Puck and Santana. I empathize greatly right now with my red-headed friend.

I feel as though I'm imposing on something incredibly private, but I don't know how to walk away.

"Santana, I-" Puck tries again, moving around the table to get closer to her.

"Puck, I said don't. Okay? Think whatever you want. I don't fucking care," she hisses. My eyes jump to the refreshment table, and I'm relieved to see that Ms. Clemens is no longer there.

Puck appears pained, but he stops his approach.

"Sadie, you have your luggage with you, right?" Santana asks in a far less harsh voice.

"In Puck's truck." Sadie gives a small nod.

"Mind if I see what I can find for this in it?"

"Use whatever you need. I'll come with you," Sadie declares..

They both begin their trek to the truck, but Santana seems to remember something, and she turns briefly to address me.

"Will you tell Tyler that I'll be right back?" she requests of me.

"He needs to leave here shortly, but I'll tell him," I warn her.

"I'll hurry," she responds seriously.

Puck sighs heavily before he trails after the women. I successfully defeat the urge to stand and watch whatever scene is about to unfold across the street, and I turnabout to seek out Tyler instead.

He's over the fucking moon when I tell him that Santana is here. His mother promises him that they'll wait until Santana comes back before they go since Tyler said he'll take care of dinner for the girls while his mom gets ready for work. I don't grant myself even the most fleeting of looks toward the area of the truck, because I don't want to call Tyler's attention to the situation. Eventually, I excuse myself as Tyler reiterates to his mother that she is not allowed to embarrass him in front of Santana.

I move back to the display table, honestly, so I have an excuse to face the street, and with it, Puck's truck. Santana has the tailgate down, and Sadie's luggage is wide open and scattered on the bed of the truck. She has some sort of white wrapping around the middle of her left bicep, and she's scrubbing the inside of her jacket sleeve furiously, before she slips it back on. Puck is standing beside her and his mouth is moving adamantly, but I can't read his lips. His frustration and distress is conspicuous, but Santana just looks pissed. Whenever she starts to gesture at him with both hands, she rapidly drops her left, as if she temporarily forgets her injury each time because she's _that_ upset.

Sadie wordlessly packs the scattered items back into her suitcase while the other two argue. It's uncharacteristic of her to stay out of situations like this. The observation scares me. There must be something different about this disagreement if Sadie is not getting involved. Maybe she knows that her potential attempts at peacekeeping cannot make a dent in whatever in transpiring between her friends.

"Is that who you think I am?! Huh, Puck? Huh? Is that what you really think of me?!" I'm able to barely make out Santana's words this time, because she's raised her voice. She sounds furious, sure, but it's her obvious heartbreak that rings far more pressingly in my ears.

Instantly, it's as if I'm submerged in her misery. I don't know what kind of dangerous affairs she must be involved in, but I can't deny that it physically pains me to see her in such obvious agony. My pain is magnified because I can only watch the emotion rip through her. I can't assuage, console, or soothe any of it.

I think she might be close to tears as Puck tries to move forward to try and hug her. She stops him immediately with her hands on her chest, shaking her head adamantly.

"Quinn?" An unexpected voice interrupts my eavesdropping.

I rotate around to find Chelsea, Caleb, and Amelia waiting to speak with me. I think I forgot where I was for a moment, but I gather myself together, and force a smile.

"I think we're going to take off," Chelsea informs me.

Chelsea and Caleb were friends before the event today. Chelsea is actually the one who introduced me to Caleb in the first place, but they met Amelia for the first time today. The three of them seemed to be getting along famously, however, and I'm assuming that _we_ means that all three of them are leaving together.

I'm shaken by what I have just witnessed happening across the street, but I don't need them to know that. I hug each of them and thank them for coming.

Just as I'm pulling away from my goodbye hug with Amelia, Sadie returns.

"Well hey there, I recognize that ass," Sadie directs at Chelsea with a smirk.

_Oh god._

Sometimes, I think that if Sadie were on a chart like the one on "The L Word" that her connections would rival Shane's.

"Sasha? Am I close?" Chelsea guesses.

Maybe I jumped to the wrong conclusion. I know Chelsea is bisexual, but that does not mean that one ass comment from Sadie means they have slept together. Unlike Sadie, Chelsea doesn't strike me as someone who forgets the names of the people she sleeps with.

"Close enough," Sadie shrugs with a smile completely unfazed by Chelsea's mistake. It's more evidence in favor of a non-sexual history between them. I'm sure that if they had slept together Sadie would have at least made a joke about how she knows that she's more memorable than that.

Before I can inquire as to how the two know each other, Chelsea's attention is drawn behind us, and she weaves around our small group to intercept Santana's on her path to Tyler.

"Santana?! What are you doing here?" Chelsea greets Santana as if Santana's presence here is a pleasant surprise.

"It's a long story. What are you doing here?" Santana is polite, but her tone doesn't hold the same excitement as Chelsea's does.

Sadie notices where my concentration is, and she engages Amelia and Caleb in a conversation. Once again, I'm thankful to have her around. She has this flawless way of either making things twice as easy for me or twice as awkward. It's a gift really.

"My friend Quinn over there is the brains and talent behind this project." Chelsea points over to me. I try to pretend like I haven't been staring, but Sadie shoots me a look as if to tell me that I'm not remotely convincing.

"Yeah, we know each other. She did a great job," Santana compliments without even looking my way.

_We know each other._ It says far too much, and yet, not enough at all.

I'm beginning to think that Santana is the one who Chelsea's knows, and not Sadie.

"Are you free later tonight by chance? I don't have to go in until 11 tomorrow," Chelsea proposes.

_Are they friends?_ Chelsea's never mentioned Santana before. I smile politely at Caleb, vaguely aware that he just said something flattering about my work.

"I actually have to go back to work as soon as I'm done here," Santana answers.

"I think you're the only person I know who works more than I do. Let me know if you are able to escape early? If not, maybe we can meet up this weekend. It's been way too long," Chelsea suggests.

"I'm pressed for time, but I'll call you, okay?" I watch as Santana's eyes flicker over to Tyler.

Chelsea hugs Santana, and places a lingering kiss on my ex-girlfriend's cheek.

Santana is finally able to continue on her mission to see Tyler, and Chelsea comes back to us to fetch Amelia and Caleb. We make our farewells once more, before they advance down the sidewalk to leave.

I return to my display table task, and Sadie assists me in gathering the pictures and binders. Multiple times, I start to open my mouth to speak to Sadie. The urge to drill her with questions rises and falls like a tide in my chest.

"You're so obvious, Fabray."

"What are you talking about?" I feign ignorance.

"Ask what you want to ask." Sadie pauses in her current chore, gripping the sides of the binder with her hands.

"Which question? I have so many. But none of them are my business," I breathe out in frustration.

"Cut the honorable crap, gorgeous," Sadie orders.

Her blue eyes implore me to speak, but I really don't know if I have the energy to do so. This isn't how I expected today to turn out.

I give in, and I launch into the easiest of potential topics.

"Chelsea. Did you two ever-?"

"No. Not that I would be opposed if Santana was okay with it. Why, was she checking me out?" She wiggles her eyebrows.

I think that_ if Santana was okay with it_ is more than enough of an answer, but I ask the question anyway. I've been relying too much on assumptions as of late.

"And Santana?"

"Oh yes. Santana and I have definitely done the dirty, but I thought you knew that already," she jokes.

I know that she is well aware that that is not the question I was asking. Of course, I'm well-acquainted with Sadie and Santana's sexual history.

"Sadie…" I scathe.

Movement beckons my gaze, and I see that Tyler is guiding Santana along the wall. She's entirely engaged in him as he talks animatedly about his parts, while his mother and sisters languidly follow behind. He gestures to the portion of the wall that I painted as well; it's as if he's proud to have me as an instructor.

"Fine fine. Sorry, it was just too easy. I met your friend when she was in Santana's bed. I don't think they've hooked up in months. But no, I don't know why. As far as I know, Santana hasn't been having sex at all recently. Waste of a hot and talented body if you ask me," Sadie elaborates.

I realize that I don't want to know anymore. Why should I have any interest in who Santana sleeps with? Sure, the reason that Santana hasn't been having sex recently could be because she's with Rachel. That explains both her disinterest in Chelsea's earlier invitation, and why Santana couldn't simply state that she is seeing someone. But what does it matter? What does it change? Even if I somehow managed to gather all of the answers, what difference would it make?

"Sorry," she offers a half-hearted apology, apparently interpreting my expression as one of irritation over her Santana comment.

It's interesting how things change. In high school, when Sadie was competing with me for Santana's attention, the jealousy I felt was like an uncontrollable blaze. But the discovery that Chelsea had or has some sort of sexually beneficial relationship with Santana doesn't make me feel much of anything at all.

I'm just weary. I think I'm done asking questions for a while.

"Miss F?" Tyler calls from behind me. I've been fruitlessly urging him to call me Quinn for months now. I spin around, but I don't bother to correct him. If he doesn't want to call me Quinn at this point then I can't make him.

"Yes, Ty?"

"Would you snap some pics of me with Santana at the wall?" He's practically bouncing with enthusiasm. No matter what conflict went down earlier, I'm happy that Santana is able to be here for him.

"I'd be happy to," I profess, and crouch down to retrieve my camera bag from under the display table.

Since I'm a photographer, I've been able to save the Project a decent amount of money by taking all of the pictures for it myself. I love doing it, and the extra money on my paychecks doesn't hurt either.

Santana and Tyler are waiting for me in front of the wall. She's teasing him about how professional he looks in his button up shirt and tie while she ruffles the hair on his hatless head. Her suit looks much cleaner than it did before. She must have done more to it when she was at Puck's truck than I was able to see.

Ms. Wallace moves next to me with the girls. I take a few candids before Santana and Tyler take notice of me.

"Oh shi-I mean oh shoot? Is that what people say? Do people say shoot?" Santana muses out loud, and Ms. Wallace laughs good naturedly.

Santana slides her work bag around to her front, and digs inside of it.

"I almost forgot something," Santana announces as she retrieves a square medium sized box from her bag.

She hands the box to a confused, but smiling Tyler.

"Open it," she guides him. I catch her look of anticipation with my camera.

He lifts the lid with more care than I would have expected from him, and his eyes widen.

Ms. Wallace stops her oldest daughter by snatching a handful of the back of her shirt as the girl attempts to launch forward in search of the "prezzies" as she calls them.

Tyler takes a purple and white Yankees hat from the box, regarding Santana with complete shock. She laughs and takes the hat from him. She fingers the brim of the cap, separating the bills of what I realize are two hats instead of one. Tyler's realization seems to hit him at the same time that mine hits me.

"Two?!" he breathes in disbelief.

"This one is signed by some of the players, but I thought you may want to keep it in a safe place, so this one is for you to wear so you can get some blood circulating to that big head of yours," Santana rationalizes.

I wonder who owed her the favor that enabled her to get all of those signatures. I'm impressed, and Tyler appears as though he is still in a state of shock.

"That's the hat you been begging me for isn't it, baby?" Ms. Wallace chimes in.

"Yeah, ma," he confirms.

"You better take good care of it," she recommends.

"I will," he responds with a slight whine. Santana holds the box for him so he can pull the non-signed hat onto his head.

She reaches into the box to fetch something, before returning the other hat, and replacing the lid.

"This here is to get you started on some painting supplies-that is if it's okay with your mom." Santana holds up what appears to be a gift card of some sort.

There's part of this story that I'm missing, I'm sure of it, but for once, I don't care. The hat that I've rarely seen off of Tyler's head isn't a Yankees cap, and as far as I know, Santana has no idea how many conversations I've had with Tyler about encouraging him to pursue painting. He's one of my most talented students, and he derives such joy from it that I really hope to see him continue.

"I'm more than okay with it, sweetie. My, what a blessing you are," Ms. Wallace approves.

"This is conditioned on one thing though," Santana pauses for dramatic effect as she waves the card. "You have to paint me something legitimate." She pokes him in the shoulder.

"I got you," he swears, and she slips the card back into the box. She hands the package back to him, and he places it carefully under his arm.

"Happy Belated Birthday, Little Man," she wishes him.

_How the hell does she know that he just had a birthday a couple days ago?_

His resulting smile is borderline shy, and he thanks her so quietly that it's barely audible.

She then forces him to make a staged pose with her for a picture.

Ms. Wallace leans into my ear.

"Can you imagine my surprise when I got a phone call from this girl here? She wanted to make sure that she wasn't going to be crossing any lines by gettin' him these gifts. Can you believe it? Look at my boy's face. You think I'd ever deprive him of that? _Hell no_," she talks quietly enough to prevent Tyler or Santana from hearing, before she tilts away from me.

Sometimes I think that Santana thinks of everything. I'm not sure I would have ever thought to ask for a parent's permission before giving their child a gift, but I suppose it makes sense.

"I'm happy I got to meet the woman who got my boy all interested in government. I was grateful to you, but I did not understand it until I saw your face. Girl, if whatever you do in that suit doesn't work out, you could make a living as a stop sign," Ms. Wallace praises Santana while I photograph the smiling pair.

Santana laughs heartily.

"I'm happy that I was able to meet the woman who raised such a wonderful kid; I can plainly see where he got his good looks and charm from," Santana flatters back.

"I'm grown," Tyler objects.

"Boy, no you ain't. Peach fuzz don't make you grown," Ms. Wallace argues.

"Ma!"

"You shoulda seen his history teacher's face at our conference. He would not stop talking on about how engaged in class Ty-Ty is now," Tyler's mother remarks in astonishment.

"Don't call me that in front of her," Tyler mumbles through gritted teeth.

"Ty-Ty, that's cute," Santana teases, and the young man sulks.

"So, what do you do in that nice suit of yours?" Ms. Wallace changes the topic, offering her son a small reprieve.

I feel like holding my breath. Santana's face darkens, and I get the feeling that she had been enjoying whatever escape this family was offering her away from the world of which she arrived here from.

"I'm a crisis manager," she answers simply.

"I'm 'fraid I don't know what that is, baby," Ms. Wallace admits.

"I solve complicated problems for people, basically," she elaborates a little.

"I'm sure you do. You seem like a good woman with a good head on her shoulders. I bet you make all of the difference for a lotta people," Ms. Wallace concludes kindly.

Santana's discomfort isn't showing, but I know it's there. I veer the conversation away, and ask for Ms. Wallace and the girls to get into the picture.

"Okay, but last one. I gotta get these wildins fed," Ms. Wallace complies.

The baby on her hip cranes backwards, and her mouth comes dangerously close to Santana's jacket. Santana leans slightly away from the drooling baby, looking rather apprehensively at the child as she does so.

"Don't be shy. A little baby spit does wonders for the skin," Ms. Wallace encourages with a smile.

"Is that why your skin is so flawless?" Santana charms.

"My my, aren't you the sweetest? Does the frownin' bald man over there know how lucky he is?" I follow her eyes to Puck, who is helping Sadie and Ms. Clemens pack up the rest of the event. I wonder how Ms. Clemens managed to recruit them. My guess is that Puck was looking for an excuse to keep his hands busy; as for Sadie, well, Ms. Clemens isn't unfortunate to look at.

"That your man?" Tyler echoes sadly.

"No, but he's one of my best friends," Santana corrects. The family doesn't notice the flicker of despair in her eyes, but my camera does.

"That's right, baby. The men will always be there. It's better to do you as long as you can, and when you do find a man, you make sure he's a good one. You make sure that he knows what he has," Ms. Wallace advises.

I take the last picture, and they all stray away from the wall together. I scan Santana's face in an attempt to find any hint as to how she is going to handle this.

For years, I dreaded it when people would ask me about the love interests in my life. Even after I became open concerning my relationships with women, it still took me time to figure out how to properly navigate such conversations. It was very uncomfortable for me at first, because everyone seems to go with the heterosexual default. Even these days, I have internal debates as to when the the proper is time to correct someone else's assumptions about my sexuality.

"I appreciate the advice, Ms. Wallace, but my interests are exclusively limited to women," Santana clarifies. Apparently, she chose blatant honesty.

Ms. Wallace doesn't flinch or miss a beat.

"Yes, that's the way to do it. No men at all. That's even better." Ms. Wallace inclines her head enthusiastically.

"You got the Wallace luck, boy. Fallin' for a girl when you have the wrong age and the wrong equipment. You don't need three strikes in this game. Two are _plenty_." Ms. Wallace snorts at her own joke.

"God, ma!"

"Don't you be sayin' that to me. You watch your manners in front of these beautiful young women. You said you were from Ohio, too, didn't cha Quinn? They grow 'em right there, that's for sure," she remembers.

I've only met her a handful of times, but she has a great memory for detail. She loves asking me questions about the Midwest and the West Coast. She hasn't had the opportunity to travel very far outside of NYC.

"I am. Santana and I went to high school together," I disclose, and Santana and I share a knowing look that makes me feel as if the temperature out here has swiftly risen about ten degrees.

"Mmhmm, cheerleaders?" she guesses, and I nod in response. It's been awhile since someone has made that particular assumption of me. At Yale, everyone seemed to, but it's become far less frequent with every year that has passed since.

"I want some of that water. Smart, stunning girls. You two come to dinner sometime soon, yeah? Are Thursdays good for y'all? I hope so, it's my only night off of the week," she invites.

"Thursdays work for me," I accept. I really like Tyler, and his mother is a sweetheart. I'm sure it will be a good time. Plus, even if Santana attends, it will be in an environment where I would have to worry about her unpredictable attitude.

"I can try, but my work schedule is unpredictable," Santana tells her. I know it's not a fake excuse, but it does sound rehearsed (probably because she's had to say it so many times).

"Oh bless. Last Thursday of this month? I'll call you Quinn and I trust you'll pass it along to your friend here. We gotta get this one home before this pretty wall gets to smelling like raunchy garbage." She dips in reference to her youngest.

With that, we make our parting wishes and Santana gives a blushing Tyler a hug, and Ms. Wallace insists on hugging us both.

I look around as the family walks away, and it seems like Ms. Clemens has taken care of everything, and now she's nowhere to be seen. I make a mental note to call her tomorrow to thank her. Santana appears as though she's about to say something to me when Sadie and Puck reach us. Santana tenses immediately.

Sadie embraces Santana, somewhat awkwardly, obviously trying to avoid hurting her injured friend. It reminds me of how some people treated Santana after our Junior Prom. They acted as though she was fragile, which I partially found to be entertaining given that Santana had lifted me by my ass and pressed me against her bedroom door mere hours after the incident.

Santana and Sadie share a whispered conversation in each other's ears before Santana playfully says that she hopes that her plane has a lot of turbulence.

It's my turn to bid my friend farewell, and as she wraps her arms around me I realize how much I'm going to miss her while she's filming. _Who could have ever guessed that one day I was going to feel that way about Sadie fucking Brooks?_

As we finish our embrace, Santana and Puck argue heatedly beside us.

"Puck. I'm not talking about this here," Santana refuses whatever peace he's trying to make.

I flash back to how hurt she looked by the truck earlier; it's reminiscent of the strain that's currently on her face, and the words spill out of my mouth before I even know what I'm saying.

"Am I still walking you back to work?"

Sadie and Santana's eyebrows rise simultaneously.

"Um, yeah," Santana takes the out that I've offered her. Puck looks crestfallen, but he doesn't attempt to stop Santana as we turn together to approach the sidewalk.

We walk for awhile together in silence. I'm amazed that Santana is the one to break it.

"Thank you for doing this."

Out my peripheral vision, I can see that she's chewing on the inside of her cheek.

"You seemed really uncomfortable," I reason.

It's an understatement, because Santana was experiencing far more than discomfort. But I'm sure that her and Puck will work out whatever it is that has happened between the two of them. They've made it this far, and I don't know if I've ever met two people who are as loyal to one another as they are.

"I was," she confesses without any apparent feeling. It's odd, because on the one hand I wasn't sure she was going to even cop to her earlier reaction, and on the other hand, while she does admit it, she sounds robotic as she does so.

This doesn't feel awkward between us necessarily, but the air feels heavy. I fidget with the strap of my camera bag contemplating whether I am going to walk Santana all the way to her office or if I should branch off before I say something stupid. I'm sure that Puck and Sadie are en route to the airport, so my mission here is done.

But she's not telling me that she's fine now. She's not pushing me away.

It's such a strange phenomenon how I feel and act around this woman. It seems as if I'm either in a constant state of overthinking or I act without thinking at all. In the past, I could have given you a list of understandable reasons why I was so attracted to Santana.

But now, I'm not sure if those reasons exist anymore. But even when I knew her more intimately than anyone else, there was still that inexplicable factor. Maybe it's the pull that she once described to me.

I remember the first attempt I made to explain to her how I felt the same pull. It was right before the first time we made love. She wanted to know why I continued to seek her out when we spent three years as enemies, after a childhood devoted to being best friends.

* * *

_Well, you see I felt this pull..._

_It's true. I've always been drawn to you. For years, you were the center of my world, and it was a real struggle for me to find any sense of gravity after you disappeared. You were the only person to ever make me feel the way that I did, and while I hated you for what you were doing to me, I was still so desperate to get that feeling back._

_You know, I never thought I would want to be near someone that I hated so much. And every touch you gave me in that room just inflamed my confusion. Once we broke down that huge barrier between us, it was like I had found my sense of gravity again. So to come back to your original question, that's why I came to find you on your birthday. Simply put, I came to find you because I couldn't stay away from you._

* * *

It's amazing to me that one night locked in a storage room could lead to the journey that we had together, and ultimately, lead us here.

So yes, apparently no matter how much time passes or how differently our lives have turned out, I still feel that undeniable force that draws me to her. I could know everything about her or nothing at all and I'm confident that the sensation would be there regardless.

Every time the reasonable portion of my brain says "_she's a stranger"_, the enigmatic energy between us counters with _"but she's **my** stranger"_.

Whoever she is, I can't stop myself from being concerned about her.

She peers at me curiously, and I beg my cheeks not to flush. With her reading abilities, I'm not too keen on her having a window into my mind just then.

Somewhat scrambled, I speak without thinking again.

"I'm not going to ask you any questions, and I know that being around each other again isn't a choice you would have made, but I want you to know something anyway. I'm here if you ever need anything or if you're in trouble or-" I trail off because I'm really unsure of what I'm saying.

I don't know why she would ever choose to call me if she needed something, but I feel compelled to tell her that I'm here anyhow.

"I don't need saving," Santana replies softly. She doesn't sound prideful or defensive, but I can't put my finger on her tone. She almost sounds lost, but not quite.

"I won't pretend to know what's going on with you, Santana. I'm just offering to be a friend. I'll sit with you in silence if that's what you need or I'll let you kick my ass jogging. Or we can keep up this pattern of only seeing one another in group settings."

By letting her kick my ass I mean I'll jog with her. The ass kicking will happen no matter what, I'm sure. I exercise relatively frequently. I don't have the intense Cheerios workouts anymore, but I'm definitely still in shape. That doesn't mean that I've fooled myself into thinking that I could compete athletically with my ex-girlfriend who engages in physical training as an essential part of her job.

Santana and I were always both strong athletically. To be Cheerios, we had to be. Santana was typically a better endurance runner than I was, where I could out sprint her more often than not. She was stronger, but I was more flexible.

Admittedly, I wouldn't mind seeing her in action now.

"Is that what you actually want? To be my friend?" she asks skeptically. I know she isn't accusing me of wanting more than that. She merely seems to be in a state of disbelief that I would consider a friendship with her at all.

"If you're going to be friendly, sure," I reply. I am willing to try a friendship with Santana, but that doesn't mean that I'll allow her to treat me poorly. If things are as pleasant as our last couple interactions have been, than I would agree to make the effort.

"That's fair," she laughs softly. "But after today's incident, I can't see why you'd be interested in that at all."

"You mean after I watched you make a teenage boy's entire year?" I challenge. I don't know why Santana was bleeding, and I don't know what she did before she came to the reveal. What I do know is the generosity and kindness that she showed Tyler. The rest is just speculation.

"Clever," she commends with a half-smile, causing the indentation of the dimple that I've kissed thousands of times. Miraculously, I don't act on the impulse to kiss it again.

"I try."

Her pinky finger brushes against mine as her arm swings mildly beside her. A chill runs from my pinky into my palm. It's crazy what the briefest and most simple touch can do.

"You don't have to. You've always been good with your tong-uh, words," she catches herself.

I laugh, and her shoulders seem to relax.

_Tongue? Really?_

I'm not sure if I would have thought much of it had she not deliberately changed her word choice. But now I know that she was at least thinking about my tongue.

_This is so fucked._

Here I am waving the friendship flag at the same time that I'm longing to remember what her skin tastes like under my tongue.

"You're lucky that you didn't say that in front of Sadie. She would have been all over it." It's true. She would have happily pulled from her arsenal of crude comments.

"Yeah. Funny, you used to hate that about her. You two seem good together though. You're good for her. She needs people like you around to rein her shit in," she replies sincerely.

It is funny how things have turned out between Sadie and I. I'm not complaining, however.

"That's very true, but she's turned out to be a good friend," I admit.

She gestures her head in agreement, as we cross the street together. With a few more moments of silence, I'm back to fiddling with the strap of my camera bag to keep my hands busy.

"Who would you say is your best friend?" she randomly inquires.

"Mercedes. Hands down. She's been there with me through it all," I answer without hesitation. I have many good friends, but Mercedes has been the greatest and most consistent.

"And would you say she knows you better than anyone else?"

I'm not sure where this is going, but I respond anyway.

"Yes, she definitely does." I share everything with Mercedes. Probably too much. She knows how to handle me in all of my moods, and can practically finish my sentences sometimes.

There was once a time when Santana was the one who knew me better than anyone else.

"And if you found out that she thought something about you, something monstrous, that speaks to the core of your character, would you believe it to be true? Since she knows you better than anyone else?"

It's obvious that this is about Puck. I don't think she's playing a game, and I don't think that she has deluded herself into thinking that I wouldn't know what she's referring to. Is the monstrous thing that Puck thought the blood could be someone's elses? It didn't seem to quite fit.

But, I do know that she doesn't tell Puck everything. It seems as if he only knows the bare minimum of what she does at her job. The hypothetical doesn't work in the same way for the two of us. If Mercedes thought something monstrous about me, then either she had gone cuckoo or I had done something terrible, because Mercedes knows my story. But Santana's friends, they seem to rely primarily on assumptions rather than truths.

"I don't know. It would be difficult for me to reconcile it. But that's because I tell her pretty much everything so it would be unusual if we were to draw two completely different conclusions from the same information," I rationalize thoughtfully.

No wonder Santana was so upset. When I began reconnecting with people I was faced with people who had some rather awful opinions about me. It hurt, even though they only knew the 18-year-old version of me. They didn't know the version of myself that I am today.

But Puck, he's been Santana's best friend for all of these years. Whether he legitimately believes what Santana thinks that he does or not, she's obviously tortured by it.

"You're good, Fabray." She shakes her head in a manner indicative of respect, but I'm too distracted by how my name rolls off of her tongue.

I'm thrown off by her use of my name. She hasn't called me by any single form of my name since I saw her again. _Not once._ Sure, I crave to hear my first name on her tongue again. I yearn for it to a degree that I probably shouldn't. But this, this had to be a start. It also doesn't hurt that it reminds me of our plane ride to Cheerleading Nationals our junior year, when she said the exact same words.

* * *

_The plane coasts without so much as a single bump to interrupt my sketching. With Santana's wrist injury from Prom, we aren't sure how her wrist is going to support some of the more advanced gymnastic maneuvers until we arrive at Nationals. We need four girls to do the same flip at the same time, but only four girls on the squad are capable of doing it and Santana is one of them. I'm brainstorming alternate formations that are dependent on how weak her wrist is when we get there._

_I bite down on my bottom lip as I contemplate the pros and cons of the various options, my eyebrows scrunching in thought. Every so often my teeth gradually lose hold on my lip, until I capture it again moments later._

_She's staring at me, I can feel it. Things have been good with us the past couple of days, and Santana was the one who suggested that I sit next to her on the plane. Our relationship is confusing and maybe I should pretend like I don't notice her gaze, but I can't stop myself from at least looking to see where exactly her eyes are pointed._

_Once I do, I discover that they're unmistakingly focused on my lips. I want to ask what she's thinking. Is she thinking about each time we've kissed? Under the porch, in the foam pit, in her bedroom, twice more on her porch, and once in my bed? Six amazingly different encounters._

_She finally tears her gaze away from my lips, and realizes that my eyes are on hers. I roll the tip of my pen back and forth across my lower lip. Although I can tell that she's embarrassed at getting caught, her attention flickers down to my mouth once again. It's a small victory, but it feels good._

_There's desire in those beautiful eyes of hers, and I desperately want to know where her mind is taking her, because, let's be honest, I want to come, too._

_"You're good, Fabray." She raises one eyebrow in my direction, before she reclines back into her seat and inserts her earbuds. Santana obviously is well aware that I'm acting deliberately._

_My arm brushes hers as I force myself to turn my attention back to my diagram to make an unimportant note. Her arm shivers against mine before she withdrawals it completely. She forces her eyes close, and my lips spread into a satisfied smile._

* * *

"I have my moments. I don't know what happened between the two of you, but I do know that he thinks the world of you." Surely his mind couldn't have changed that much since my conversation with him in his truck. His actions today also clearly demonstrated how much he cares for her.

"I don't know about that anymore. But I don't think I blame him for it," she states matter-of-factly. It makes me wish that I felt comfortable enough to hug her.

Would she not blame him for thinking poorly of her because of all of the secrets she keeps? Or has she actually done something that she considers to be monstrous?

If she's as unhappy with her situation as other people claim then why doesn't she just quit? What's holding her there? I'm sure that with Santana's brain and skill set that she would have no issues finding another job. There must be something I'm missing.

I can't think of anything to say that isn't a question, and since I said that I wouldn't ask any questions on this walk, I say nothing at all.

Before I know it, we've stopped in front of her office building.

"So friends huh?" she reiterates.

We've had all kinds of issues with being just friends in the past, but we were adults now. Surely, we could figure it out.

"Might as well try," I confirm, watching her eyes as they roam up the strikingly tall building.

We were basically just children when we said goodbye all those years ago. We had just left our small town Ohio lives to embark on our futures. And now here we are. I just finished my first project in NYC, and we're standing in front of the intimidating building where Santana uses her law degree to do who knows what.

She's not hurrying inside. I can't help but wonder whether it's because she wants to stay with me or if it's because she just doesn't want to go back to work.

"Friends usually have each other's numbers, right? So does this mean after all this time, I finally get the new one?" Her brown eyes flutter down to meet mine. I know that she knows that my eyes were just absorbing the contours of her face. By the well-meaning smile on her face, she doesn't seem to mind.

When my eyes flit down to her mouth her lips part in a much broader smile to reveal her white teeth. I get butterflies for the second time today. Santana was the first one, after my parents, who I gave my cell number to when I got one in 6th grade. These butterflies are just as unwelcome as the last, but they're also competing with this heaviness in my gut at the implication of her words. The combination of the two is enough to make me nauseous.

From her expression, I know she doesn't mean anything by it. She's not criticizing me, at least not right now, for the choice I made back then. But after so many years spent detached from these people, I'm overwhelmed by their realities. I didn't hear about what Santana went through until recently, and although I have yet to hear it from her, I feel guilty. I don't regret what I did, I still believe that it was necessary, but I do regret some of the _how_ of what I did.

I should have told her what I was going to do. I should have explained to her why I needed to do what I did. I should have given her a real goodbye. I'm not sure how I would have managed it given my panicked state at the time, but perhaps I could have sent a letter or something of that nature.

"I should have told you before I did that, I'm sorry that I didn't," I apologize, lowering my voice when a group of people pass us by on the sidewalk.

Santana's eyes focus in understanding of my meaning, her pupils dilate, and her jaw flexes. It's some demonstration of pain, I'm sure, but she doesn't lash out.

"It was a bad joke on my part. I wasn't trying to take this there," she explains, placing her right foot on the first step of the building.

It's like she's warning me that she's about to run.

"I know. I've been wanting to say that for awhile, but I wasn't sure if we were actually ever going to talk about what happened between us," I confess, bracing myself for her to continue her movement into the building.

Unexpectedly, she doesn't move. She's not smiling anymore, but she's not frowning either. Her eyebrows are curved in thought. I let out the breath that I've unknowingly been holding, and I pray that it isn't too obvious that I've done so.

"Maybe another day?" she suggests lightly with a cock of her head.

She shifts forward to reach seemingly in the direction of my hip. I freeze, but she doesn't actually touch me. She zips a pocket on my camera bag that I apparently forgot to close. She gets close enough to me that I can detect that she doesn't smell like herself. She doesn't smell dirty or bad or anything like that; it's some mixture of Tide and wood shavings, and it's a muskier scent than I'm accustomed to from her.

"It's a date," I say, once again without thinking.

_Ugh, of course I had to use that word._ I couldn't have used _plan_ or _deal_ or any number of other far more neutral words. _Nope. I had to use date. God damn it._

She doesn't comment on it, instead she retrieves her phone from her bag to hand it to me. I take it from her, careful to grab it with my thumb and forefinger to avoid making contact with her hand.

"Thanks for listening," she murmurs genuinely as I plug my number into her phone.

"You're welcome. I'll see you soon?" Coming out of my mouth, it sounds far more expectant than it did in my head.

"Soon works. Goodnight," she bids me and I hold out the phone for her.

She doesn't use the same approach to the phone transfer as I did; her fingernails skim the bottom of my palm as she accepts her phone back.

It's absolutely ridiculous, but I swear that my eyes threaten to roll into the back of my head.

The first time I kissed her, it started with my palm. I was talking to her about Brittany's lack of discretion concerning their former sex life, and she blushed. I teased her about her red cheeks, which, of course, bothered her wannabe badass self to no end. She was set on revenge and was determined to make me blush in return.

So, she loosely intertwined her fingers in mine and pressed her thumb into the flesh of my palm. She applied firm pressure, slowly dragging her thumb down the sensitive line of nerves that were bundled in the palm of my hand. Her thumbnail never even reached the bottom of my palm, and I didn't blush like she intended me to; I kissed her instead.

"Goodnight," I echo her sentiment as she climbs the front steps.

I want to tell her that I hope she gets out at a decent hour or that I hope work goes well for her tonight. But for now, one word is all I can manage. I'm not quite the bumbling idiot that I was the night that she gave me a ride home on her motorcycle, but I'm no Shakespeare either.

She pauses at the leftmost door, running her hand through her hair as she twists back to face me.

"Only saying it once tonight?" she baits me with a cock of her brow and a smirk of her lips.

_God, she's sexy. Even when she's being a bitch._

"Fuck you, Santana," I curse at her without real malice.

A man in a Hawaiian shirt passes in front of me, but doesn't blink twice at my language.

"Memory failing you in your old age, Fabray? You've already done that," she banters further, looking more than pleased with herself.

_Believe me, the reminder is entirely unnecessary._

I really need to stop saying _fuck you_ to people because it always gets me into trouble. She disappears into the building, and with a frustrated exhale, I start my journey home.

* * *

It's not until I'm undressing for the night that I realize that while Santana has my number now, I failed to get hers. On my way home my mind was honestly too preoccupied by thoughts of fucking Santana to think of it. It wasn't just memories that filled my head although those would have been plenty, because our sex life was incredible. And I still feel that way now, with almost a decade of experience under my "belt".

But memory became interwoven with reality and soon I was imagining just how much she could have learned over the years. I contemplate how her touch may have changed, and how her amazing mouth could have only acquired more tricks after all this time.

_It's fucking distracting._

I couldn't even focus on the book that I've been reading during my commute for the last few weeks. Half-dressed I plop down on my bed, eyeing my camera bag that I rested near my dresser skeptically. I'm tempted to begin working through the pictures from today, but I fear I'll scream from sexual frustration if I have to look at dozens of pictures of Santana right now. I crash backwards into the mattress instead.

_Ugh, this is ridiculous._ I'm probably just going through something hormonal.

I briefly consider calling someone to satiate the need coursing through my body.

The sound of my text alert so close to my ear makes me cringe. I had thrown my phone onto my bed upon entering my bedroom, and now my head happens to be right up next to it. I blindly reach for the device, holding it over my face to check my messages.

It's a text from a number my phone doesn't recognize.

**Today should have been about you, and not me and my shit. It was not my intention to detract from what today was for you. You've accomplished a lot, Fabray. I'm proud of you.**

I'm about 99% sure that butterflies have made an appearance in my stomach for the third time today. Seriously, this can't be normal for someone my age.

Part of me ponders whether this phenomenon could merely be my body's recognition of stimuli that I've experienced in the past. I'm not a science person, and I only took a couple of psychology courses in college, but it could be a possibility, right? Perhaps it's not really Santana who is making me feel this way; maybe it's solely my memory of her. It could be that my body once reacted to her similarly, and it remembers that somehow and responds accordingly.

_I don't know._

It feels illogical, in any case.

On a non-body related note, I'm moved by her last two sentences. In high school Santana used to periodically guard herself completely from me, and during those times she would only occasionally show me flashes of her kindness and vulnerability.

I've been worried that getting to know her again was going to be much of the same. And maybe it will be. But god, those flashes are beautiful.

Whatever this is, it's just beginning again and I'm determined to not draw conclusions from merely our limited interactions, and I hope that she offers me the same courtesy.

Because no matter what, I can't change the pull. I can't turn it off, or successfully dodge it given our common circle of people. It's there, and I need to find a way to determine not only what it means now that we're adults who are forming this new friendship, but also how to manage it effectively (if management is even a possibility).

Despite however she may feel about me, or what she may think of my past decisions, or issues she may have with those choices, she's proud of me. It makes my entire body feel warm even considering my current lack of clothing and the chilling blast of my air conditioning.

On my sixth (pathetic, I know) read of her text, another one comes through.

**P.S. Your artwork is still my favorite.**

_Four times._

_Fuck._


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter XIII**

* * *

**A/N: Salutations lovely readers. Thank you for all of the exceptional feedback, and thank you to my spectacularly sensational beta ckeller48. **

**T/W: There are mentions of sexual assault in this chapter. It's done very broadly without any detail, but if that is something you are worried may trigger you, please refrain from reading. Shoot me a PM and I'll be more than happy to give you a summary of the events in this chapter.**

* * *

**Santana's POV**

I dig my heel into one of the legs of my chair to make a sluggish spin around to grab my coffee from where I had left it on the windowsill upon my arrival this morning. It's not even 6 a.m. yet, but I have a conference calling coming in from India within the next half hour. I think there are, at most, three other people already at work. I don't mind it; in fact, it's nice to be here when my office is Sebastian free.

"The back of your head is _ridiculous_."

My body jolts upwards at the voice. If it wasn't for the lid on my coffee, I would have definitely splashed it all over myself.

After a heavy breath, I swivel in my chair to discover that Sadie's shoulders are shaking with laughter on my computer screen. Oh fuck. I'd left the automatic answer setting turned on for my video chatting last night. I fell asleep partially on top of my keyboard while I was waiting for a call from Brittany.

"Shit, my mistake; I thought I had called my friend, Santana, but from the way you just jumped like a little bitch, I can see that I have the wrong number," she snarks.

She looks so fucking proud of herself. I'm tempted to press the end call button. But, although she hasn't been gone for very long, it's good to see her face, smugness and all.

From the small amount that I can see through the screen, it appears as though she's in a cast trailer. I highly doubt that they gave her her own trailer since she's only a dancer in the film, which means that she's probably hanging out in someone else's. Not to jump to any conclusions about whose trailer it may be, but we'll just say that I would wager that she has at least one fuck buddy on set already.

"I'm a little bitch? You _cried_ when we were on the Haunted Mansion ride at Disney," I remind her.

Sadie makes this very distinctive noise when she cries. It's this strange "eeeuhhh" sound that I can only imagine that a goat/donkey hybrid would make. I was in the cart ahead of her and I could still hear it.

"That's only because I was stuck sitting next to a gassy Puck. And at least I didn't scream _Lima Heights Adjaaaaaacent_ the entire drop down on the Tower of Terror," she puts on some ridiculous Mexican accent for her imitation of me. It's so stupid; I was born in Ohio for Christ's sake.

"Hey, I was representin'," I make an excuse. In truth, it felt like my stomach had flown up to collide with my heart. Shit was scary.

"Bullshit. You only did that because you didn't want everyone to know that you were pissing your pants," she calls me out.

"Pissing my pants? You mean like you did when we were riding the LIRR to Long Island for New Year's that one year?"

Sadie made the unfortunate decision to go one for one with Puck that night. She was trashed long before we got to the station. Brittany kept trying to lure Sadie into a bed so she would pass out before we left the apartment, but Sadie wasn't having any of it. She usually handles her liquor well, so we were unaccustomed to seeing her like that, and we didn't know how to handle our notoriously obstinate friend. Sadie has a naturally loud personality, and usually when she drinks it's not that much different than her norm, but that night she was out of control.

"You swore that you would never mention that again!" she shouts indignantly.

"As the person who had to wash your stanky ass underwear in a public sink and run it under a hand dryer, I'm entitled to mention it whenever I want," I grimace, bringing my middle and ring fingers to my thumb to raise my forefinger to the screen.

Both Brittany and Rachel tried to stay with Sadie while she was emptying the contents of her stomach in that public restroom stall, but neither of them could handle it. She was flailing about so much, and while Brittany was strong enough to hold her, she almost got sick herself. Whereas Rachel tolerated the vomit far better than I expected, she didn't have the physical power to make sure that Sadie was aiming properly. I eventually had to call in Puck, and warn every girl who entered the bathroom after that about the man crouching in Sadie's stall.

Everyone refused underwear duty, however, and although I was beyond disgusted, I couldn't let my drunken friend spend the rest of the night flashing everyone while rockin' commando in her dress. I didn't have a shred of faith that she was going to be of the mind to sit any kind of lady like.

"Oh as if I've never taken care of your drunk ass." She carries the computer over to the couch before she lies down on her stomach.

She's all made up for whatever scenes she's been shooting today, and I can't remember a time where I ever saw her with this much makeup on. Up close like this, it appears heavy and overdone, but she has the kind of face where she looks good no matter what.

Sometimes I wonder how differently things would be if I had never met Quinn. I think about how I would view love and relationships if she had never stolen my inflatable guitar in preschool. Would my relationship with Sadie have worked out? Would Rachel and I be happily together? Would Brittany and I have been more than just friends with benefits in high school? Or would I have found real love with someone else?

"Telling me that I'm about to sleep with a _troll_ instead of a _10_, is not taking care of me," I contend.

Sadie has no qualms about voicing her opinion on who I sleep with. On more than one occasion when we've been out she has pulled me aside or put her lips to my ear to tell me that if I wanted sex _that_ badly that she'd be more than happy to provide it. I never turned her down. After it was clear that Sadie was over me, I didn't have any reservations about enjoying her undeniable talent in the bedroom. It was just easy to fall into bed with her every so often; it was uncomplicated, fun, and I knew that the sex would be good.

It hasn't happened in over a year. We used to go months sometimes between our hook ups, but I don't think we've ever gone quite this long since we first started adding the sporadic benefit to our relationship when I was a junior in undergrad. I try to tell myself that it has nothing to do with Quinn and our past with Sadie.

"Please. That's good lookin' out. And what about that time that I stopped you from sleeping in Central Park because you wanted be the first one to say good morning to the carriage horses?" Sadie reminisces.

I put my hands to my forehead before thrusting them forward at the screen.

"That was YOU, Sadie. You were the one babbling on about how the horses don't get enough love. You started singing "All You Need is Love" with Lady Hummel and Berry Spice while trying to climb the fucking rocks."

It was embarrassing. My law school friends found out that night about my Glee Club history thanks to Rachel Berry's incessantly flapping mouth. They ditched us well before closing time because the three crazies wouldn't stop belting every song we ever sang, and many that we didn't. Even drunk, Rachel and Kurt harmonize better than the vast majority of the general population does sober, but Sadie...she may sound like a goat/donkey hybrid when she cries, but her singing is much worse.

"Oh yeah, that _was_ me, huh? I don't even like those horses; they smell terrible." Her lips purse, and the space between her eyebrows wrinkle as she says it.

She's right. They do smell pretty nasty. That didn't stop her that night though. I'm sure it was Rachel's vegan-butt that got the thought into her head. I wouldn't be surprised if they had planned on liberating the horses after they gave them "love".

"Yeah, you three Looney Toons were just begging for a public intox. Now is there a reason for this call or are you just spending your time in Italy pining over this glorious face? Because some of us actually have work to do. We don't all get paid to dance around and pretend that we're a decade younger than we really are."

I have a general idea of the premise of the film that Rachel and Sadie are working on. I know that Rachel is playing a high schooler with larger than life dreams of fame who gets knocked up by her boyfriend. Basically, it's a musical about herself in high school had Finn ever gotten her pregnant. Sadie's playing a popular cheerleader who is part of the posse that mocks Rachel's character throughout the ordeal, although I think Sadie's only dancing in the film. It's like the musical version of Juno.

Sadie's chance at a retort is stolen by a popping noise, and her head turns. I hear Rachel's voice in its shrill register far before I actually see my movie star friend.

"Sadie Blanche Brooks! You can't just lounge around in your underwear in someone else's trailer! Where are your pants?" Rachel scolds, and Sadie rotates the computer so I can see how dramatically Rachel plants her hands on her hips.

That solves the mystery of whose trailer Sadie is in. As for the pantlessness, the video was never at an angle for me to take note of that, but it doesn't surprise me in the slightest.

I don't think I found out about Sadie's middle name until we were a couple weeks into our relationship. But it makes complete sense. Sadie's father is a total goofball who has an abnormal obsession with The Golden Girls. Sometimes when people poke fun at her for her promiscuity she claims that it isn't her fault that her parents named her after the horniest Golden Girl; she's only living up to the name.

"They're over there somewhere, but it's necessary, okay? They have me in the tightest fucking pants ever; my vagina has been suffocating to death, I kid you not," Sadie defends without remorse.

"Are you seriously unable to go five minutes without making a reference to your genitalia?" Rachel questions in exasperation.

"I don't think she is, Rach. You know how some people concern themselves over whether a falling tree makes a sound if no one is around to hear it? Sadie fears that if no one hears about her vagina that it will somehow cease to exist," I compare.

Rachel hears my voice, realizes that I'm on Sadie's computer, and smiles broadly in my direction.

"Nothing wrong with being proud of my pussy," Sadie alleges, placing her chin solidly on her palm.

"Okay well will you and your _pussy_ scoot over so I have enough room to properly see Santana?" Rachel requests bitingly.

I begin laughing the moment I register that she's said the word pussy.

"Damn that sounded so unnatural coming out of your mouth, Berry. I can't decide whether I'm turned on or nauseous," Sadie jests while she sits up to allow Rachel to drop down beside her.

"I'm sure that your plethora of bedmates are accustomed to experiencing a similar debacle," Rachel ridicules enthusiastically as Sadie moves the computer to rest it between them.

My jaw drops.

"Oh shit, Brooks; you just got verbally rudeboxed by Rachel." I'm laughing so hard that I'm not quite sure that my words are stringing together coherently.

Rachel knows how to defend herself for sure, but she doesn't typically rise to our level of antics.

"And that's the sound of the jury returning from its deliberation. Yup, judgment in favor of being turned on." Sadie fans herself theatrically to illustrate.

As entertaining as this is, I've been watching the clock, and I'm running out of time.

"Fantastic, but before you two press play on the Marvin Gaye, I have a conference call in a few minutes so if either you have anything of substance to say get to speakin'," I suggest.

Rachel and Sadie exchange a glance, and in that instant I know that this isn't a run of the mill check-in call.

"You didn't tell her yet?" Rachel asks Sadie under her breath.

"No. I don't know as much about everything as you do," Sadie answers as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Yes, I think everyone can see that." Mirth dances in Rachel's eyes as she says it. I know she's talking about more than just whatever it is that they called to tell me.

"Look at my snark rubbing off on this girl," Sadie praises, tilting her body down to bump Rachel's shoulder with her own.

"There is no rubbing going on between us. You shouldn't discredit Santana like that, and nor should you imply that I lacked wit or fortitude to begin with," Rachel combats with a shake of her head. She's certainly asserting herself, and she's enjoying every second of it.

"Seriously, you two. This verbal topping war is cute, but I literally have eight minutes," I insist. They're hilarious together and I love them to death, but I can't miss this conference call.

Rachel's face falls in apology, exchanging one more glance with Sadie before she takes a breath to explain.

"Sorry. Um...it's a bit of a long story, but after our first day shooting our film schedule was rearranged completely. Sadie and I looked it over and we noticed that all of the scenes with my leading man, Wyatt Talford, have been pushed back. We've been friends since my timeless role as Fanny Brice, where he played a much smaller, but not unimportant, role adequately and-" Rachel begins.

"And despite her never-ending condescension and her asteroid-sized ego, he's been infatuated with her ever since," Sadie interjects.

"He has _expressed_ his interest, but he's never been anything less than a perfect gentlemen about it, and I consider him to be a very good friend," Rachel clarifies loftily in a high, irritated tone. They've obviously had this discussion more than once.

"Great. Relevance?" I attempt to drive the conversation forward.

"Yesterday after we wrapped shooting for the day, I met him in his room to ask him about the changes. I was worried that they had decided to recast his role to someone with a greater range or-" Rachel elaborates.

"Pay particular attention to that tidbit, Santana, as this story continues. She met this creep _alone_, in his _room_," Sadie highlights, with wide, disapproving eyes.

"Sadie, that's unfair. We don't know if there's any truth to any of this, and I didn't know about what he was accused of beforehand," Rachel bites back.

I wonder why I haven't heard of this guy before. Sadie obviously doesn't trust him, it appears as though she hasn't trusted him for awhile now. I have confidence in her judgment. People often fail to look past Sadie's vulgarity and bravado, which is unfortunate, because not only is she a great friend, she's also an astute judge of character. For example, she predicted the issue that would cause my break up months before it happened.

"Accused of?" I pick out. I'm beginning to see where this is going.

"_Potentially_ accused. He told me that one of the producers sat him down and said that some big-wig at New Line Cinema received a phone call from a woman who said that she was an extra on our film. She said that she was sexually assaulted by Wyatt on the Sunday after we arrived here. She didn't leave her name, and it doesn't make sen-" Rachel details.

"Was there a threat made in some form?" I ask automatically. Things develop in my head differently than they used to. I don't usually have to think about what questions to pose. It comes naturally now.

This story already doesn't add up. Did the woman call because she hoped that Wyatt would be booted off the film? Or did she want to ruin his reputation with the company?

"He didn't say. He just said that they were going to reevaluate his role while they investigated the allegation." Rachel nods just once to punctuate.

"Either they didn't tell him everything, or he didn't tell you everything," I assert.

"I feel really bad for him, Santana. This is his first leading role, and he is such a sweet guy. I can't imagine that he would ever do anything like that. He said he didn't do anything that day but work and hang out at the hotel," Rachel articulates her distress.

"Rachel honey, I know you want to see the good in people, but no one is what they seem. I'm not saying he did it, but Sadie's right. You need to be careful. Don't allow yourself to be alone with him again, okay?" I advise in a soft tone.

"I've known him for years, Santana. He's _never_ tried anything like that and we've been alone many _many_ times," Rachel reiterates her point, and Sadie collapses backwards with a frustrated sigh.

"I could go into why that means absolutely nothing in this context, but I am now down to 4 minutes. So please, just be careful, for me?" I plead.

"Okay." Rachel agrees reluctantly, with a tightening of her mouth.

Sadie appears relieved as she layers her hands over her stomach.

"Is that it?" I inquire. I doubt that they called to debate the moral fortitude of their fellow cast member.

"No. Well you see when he told me all of this, I told him about you and what you do. I thought you could help with whatever investigation they are doing. He called the producer, and the producer asked me to meet with him. I met with the producer, and we spoke to New Line, and they said that they'll be contacting your firm this morning," Rachel finally arrives at the real reason for this conversation.

My chest compresses, and the air in the room feels too heavy to breathe in properly. She doesn't understand that I want to keep her and everyone else I care about as far away from my work life as possible. I resent every glimpse that they receive into this world, and hate it when they are witnesses to me in my element.

"Why wouldn't you talk to me first?" I don't mean for it to sound so accusatory, but it comes out harsher than I would have liked.

It's not only that I don't want my friends around me when I'm in work mode. It's also that I take a meager amount of solace in the fact that I don't recruit business here. It's a rationalization that I know is merely me grasping at straws to feel less guilt about what I do. I tell myself that if I'm not coercing people to come to us than perhaps I bear less responsibility that way. But this case violates that weak rationale, because if we take it, it will be because of me and my connection to Rachel.

What if this guy is a rapist, and New Line wants us to make sure that it doesn't get out? What if they expect us to slut shame the victim to discredit her story if the public catches wind of it?

That'll all be on me.

"I wanted to help him! And I wanted to make sure that this movie is as successful as it possibly can be, and your firm is supposed to be the very best. I thought you'd be excited," Rachel scrambles to defend herself, pouting after the last thought.

"Excited?" My eyebrows rise wearily.

I can't blame her for not understanding when I haven't exactly been forthcoming about my work, but that doesn't make the air any easier to breathe.

"Yes, excited! Because maybe you'll get to come to Italy, and we'll be-" she begins to chatter animatedly.

The alert for my upcoming conference call flashes insistently on my screen.

"Rach, I have to go. I'll text you when I'm done," I cut her off, and I end the call without waiting for a reply.

I can only pray that if New Line offers us the case, that the firm will refuse to take it.

* * *

I'm in the middle of typing a follow-up email from the conference call when my mother makes her arrival into her office known.

"Mija."

"Yeah?" I acknowledge without even slowing my typing.

She places her hand down on the side of my desk, as a signal for me to provide her with my full attention.

Grudgingly, I send off my email, and rotate in my chair to face her.

"You're taking the Thracian jet at midnight for a New Line Cinema case. I need you to send a memo to Keith within the next two hours on how you're distributing your cases for the next week. If the case requires your presence in Italy for longer than a week, you'll have to organize a new plan when that time comes. I expect you to accomplish what you can while you're there, but you'll need to divvy out the tasks that you can't complete while you're an ocean away," she instructs.

I don't know if I want to cry or start kicking things like Finn used to do in high school when he was upset. Honestly, part of me wants to crawl under my desk and curl into the fetal position until my mom decides that I'm not in the proper mental state to handle this case.

If my mother is prioritizing this case over the others that I'm currently on, then they must have offered quite the stack of money for us to take this. I had held out hope that even if we took the case that mom would assign a team member with more seniority than myself. But, I'm sure Rachel talked me up specifically.

I've never traveled that far on my own for a case before.

I don't cry or throw any sort of fit. I don't move from my chair. It's a cold feeling of resignation that spreads over and then beneath my skin.

"Okay." I know better than to argue with her. Her face is unreasonable. She doesn't look pleased at my acceptance, although I'm sure she didn't expect anything other than my agreement.

I contemplate whether she's thought about what this means for me and my friends. She thinks about everything, so I wouldn't be surprised if she's shielding any glimpse of concern from me.

I had my first therapy appointment last week, and stereotypically, I ended up talking about my mother far more than I had expected to.

The therapist found it interesting that I see my mother more consistently now than I have my entire life. Even when we lived together in Lima, and when we lived together in NYC my first couple years of college, I didn't see her anywhere near as often as I do now. Perhaps that has something to do with my inability leave my job. Believe me, I've thought about it. But regardless of any mommy issues I may have, I love many aspects of my job. I've never been challenged like this. I've never learned so much in such a short period of time.

It's an extremely odd thing; my job makes me feel more powerful than I've ever felt, but at the same time I've never felt more helpless.

Sebastian enters the office, before my mother can give me further instruction. She greets him with a nod before she swings her eyes back to me.

"Sebastian will be going with you," she adds.

_Fuck no._

"Sebastian?! I'm sorry but is there some queer man that needs seducing or is it his mastery of Asian languages that somehow makes him appropriate for this?" I object disparagingly.

Sebastian has other skills, if I'm to be honest. His memory is borderline photographic, and he is able to talk his way into and out of most any situation. His other area of strength is rather unspeakable. But I still don't see why he would be chosen over everyone. Although I'm no longer the rookie, I'm still second to last in the seniority ranking, and he's only one spot higher than me. Surely someone more experienced should be partnered with me on this.

"He has the lightest caseload over the next week, and you two are the most familiar with one another. You _will_ make it work," she orders.

"We will, Ms. Lopez," Sebastian brown-noses.

My mother, to my amusement, ignores him completely.

"Beverly has your travel information, and I'll be emailing you the details that we have so far. Please don't disappoint me on this one. It's imperative that you execute this case flawlessly; if you do so, it will provide our firm with a whole new stream of clientele," she stresses.

_Oh great, more pressure._

"Why me then?" I refrain, somehow, from sounding petulant when I ask it.

"You were specifically requested," she says simply.

_Rachel. Fuck._

I knew that my mom wouldn't put me on this with Sebastian had that not been the case, but I had to ask anyway.

"Send Beverly if you don't have enough time to pack. You have much to accomplish in the next 15 hours," my mother educates as if I'm not entirely aware of how much I have to do.

She leaves without expectation of a response from me, and I send Rachel a text.

**We took the case. Sebastian and I will be there early tomorrow morning. Don't tell anyone else anything about this situation. If a producer or anyone else approaches you again don't say anything, just have them call me.**

I know it sounds formal and entirely unfriendly, but it's not so easy to switch back and forth between my work demeanor and my friend demeanor. Plus, I'm upset, to say the least.

Less than fifteen minutes later, she texts me back.

**OMG! I'M SO EXCITED THAT YOU'RE COMING.**

Despite my mood, I can't help but smile at her response.

**We'll both be working, Rach lol. Calm down.**

She's obviously on some sort of break because she responds within two minutes.

**I'll have more time than usual thanks to the adjustments to the filming schedule :).**

I don't know what she expects this to be like. It's not a vacation for me. I'm not going to be hanging out in her trailer with a pantless Sadie just waiting for her to come see me in between her scenes.

**I won't have much free time.**

I'm barely beginning to delve into the complexities of this case, and I'll have to do what I can only other cases while I'm there as well.

**Don't be such a Surly Santana. We'll have fun. Sadie and I are working on getting Kurt to come too!**

I stare dumbly at the text when I receive it.

_What?_

This isn't going to be a fucking European adventure. I already have to worry about Rachel and Sadie's exposure to what I do. I don't need to worry about Kurt on top of it.

**You're out of your mind. This isn't a vacation, and I don't know how much I'll even be able to see you or anyone else you are able to convince to come.**

_Doesn't Kurt have a job?_

I'm guessing that this is just scheming on Rachel and Sadie's part, and Kurt won't actually be able to swing taking time off, this last minute, on a whim of Rachel's. But, in case he does, I'll need to check and see if we can people unaffiliated with Lopez and Associates on the jet. _Yet another thing for me to do._

**Try smiling, sweetheart. Your face will appreciate the break. I'll be happy to see you no matter how much time we'll be able to spend together.**

I groan, and even though she can't see me, I flash my phone a sarcastic smile.

* * *

If anyone thinks that I'm doing anything other than sleeping on this plane then they are out of their damn mind.

It's ten until midnight when I enter the airplane hangar, and I see that I am the last to arrive. This whole day has been one messy and stressful whirlwind, and this business trip has somehow transformed into a friend vacation despite my arguments to the contrary.

Kurt was somehow able to convince his boss that he could do an Italian fashion spread for with the promise that he would have Rachel Berry as one of his models. They couldn't send a photographer with him on such short notice (or successfully coordinate with one of them in Italy) which led to Quinn's invitation. From the brief phone conversation that I had with Quinn while I was in a cab this afternoon, she was able to reschedule or find replacements for the shoots she had coming up this week; now that her project work is finished for the summer her schedule is pretty open.

When Rachel first started talking about the possibility of Kurt joining us I never even thought that there was a chance that Quinn would be roped into this adventure as well. It makes sense that she would, I suppose, because hell, a cheap trip to Italy and photography exposure is a damn good deal. The events of today have been piling on so heavily that I'm honestly almost apathetic concerning the addition of Quinn.

_Almost._

We've exchanged maybe a couple dozen text messages since Kurt's moving day. There was one brief exchange about her wall reveal, but otherwise the conversations have been about planning for Brittany's wedding. Brittany has hired Quinn to do the wedding photography, and Quinn has texted me for my opinion on her ideas a couple times. She hasn't brought up my vague suggestion that we talk about our break-up, and neither have I.

It's nice to see her name pop up on my phone screen again. It's like we can communicate without our history weighing down on us.

There is one issue, however, and it's one that I've always had with Quinn; when we aren't ignoring each other, and when we're not being combative, flirting with her comes as naturally as breathing. I don't know how it manages to happen when she's talking to me about possible wedding picture locations, but if I'm not absolutely careful about my responses, then it happens every time.

Sadie texted me early in the afternoon to let me know that Kurt had invited Quinn, but that it didn't seem likely that she was going to come. Less than an hour after that, Rachel sent me an email to revise that she was planning on sending to Quinn.

* * *

_Quinn,_

_I'm aware of your standing invitation to accompany Kurt and Santana to visit my film set. I'm sending you this email because I want you to know that you are welcome to visit despite the issues that we have had in the past. Sadie and Kurt would love to have you, and it would be regrettable if you declined the opportunity due any apprehension you may have over the possibility of animosity between us. I will be the personification of civility if you do so choose to come._

_I hope your day is a pleasant one._

_-Rachel_

* * *

Because I was too busy, Rachel sent the email before I even had a chance to see it (or revise it, as Rachel had wanted). I would have told her not to send it at all. As soon as I read it, I knew that Quinn was going to change her RSVP to yes. For one, the email made it sound as though Rachel was giving Quinn permission, which I'm sure rubbed Quinn the wrong way. And for two, there was no way that Quinn was going to allow Rachel to think that her actions were in any way dependent on the starlet. Even if Rachel was the reason behind Quinn's hesitation, Quinn would not want to prove her right.

I tried to invite Puck, although I knew there wasn't a shot in hell that he'd be able to come; they weren't going to let him take a week off given his recent promotion. And since Brittany is in California shooting a music video, it's just going to be me, Sebastian, Beverly, Kurt, and Quinn.

The sound of my echoing steps in the hangar brings all of their attention to me. Kurt appears excited, Beverly looks as though she's one inhale away from a yawn, Sebastian appears unenthused, and Quinn looks...beautiful.

Her brow is furrowed as she regards me, however. I'm sure I look as exhausted as I feel.

She's holding the handle of a suitcase that is large enough to rival mine. She always packed to prepare for every situation.

Even so, Kurt's is larger yet.

"Is there a runway show happening on the plane tonight that I don't know about?" Kurt remarks on my appearance as I approach.

I came directly from a private poker tournament, and formal dress was required. I needed to stand out in order to accomplish what I was there for, and from the significance of the information I was able to gather for one of my cases, I succeeded.

"I'm changing as soon as I get on this goddamn plane. I had an event right before this, and I didn't have time," I explain.

"Stop whining. I had to sit on a decrepit bus today for four hours straight, and I didn't get anything out of it," Sebastian complains.

"I told you that lead wasn't going anywhere. Did you give these two the rules?" I check, motioning to Quinn and Kurt.

"They're straight," Sebastian confirms.

Kurt shares an amused look with Quinn. Well, he tries to anyway, but Quinn's smile seems only intended to pacify him.

"Not exactly," Kurt jokes.

I roll my eyes at his lame quip and address Beverly.

"Thank you for getting my things together, Bev. Did Puck behave?" I inquire as I pull my luggage away from her side to bring it to mine.

"He was very nice,actually; he helped me find everything I needed and he offered me one of your Yoohoos," Beverly responds with a smile.

Kurt, Sebastian, and Quinn's heads all turn to regard me skeptically.

"Brittany left some at my apartment the last time she was there," I defend.

"Uh huh." Kurt smirks, and I decide that it's time to board the plane.

"Okay, and they're delicious," I confess with a shrug.

I don't really care what anyone thinks about the Yoohoo in my fridge right now. I'm far more focused on how I'm going to crash face first onto the plane's bed the moment that we're coasting.

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

I tug the blanket more completely around my side as I fade in and out of sleep on one of the plane's couches. I've never been 100% comfortable on planes. I've heard all of the statistics about how it's a far safer method of travel than driving in a car. But in a car at least I have some semblance of control. On a plane, I'm completely out of it. And for a girl who has spent many hours on top of a human pyramid, I kinda have a thing about heights.

So, needless to say, once takeoff was over, and everyone went to their respective places of the plane to sleep, I didn't exactly have a peaceful slumber.

Santana claimed the only bed on the plane, and threatened Sebastian so gravely when he protested that for once he shut up. I wasn't going to try and take the bed, and not because I was afraid of Santana's wrath; it was because her voice was hoarse, and her eyes were blotched with red. Even when she first arrived to the hangar in a dress that I can only imagine cost more than my laptop, I could tell that she was practically in zombie mode. I mean, I've never seen a more attractive zombie, don't get me wrong, but she looked like someone who hadn't slept in days.

Kurt demurely (for him anyway) asked Santana if she would share the bed with him. Santana said something along the lines of "whatever" before she headed to the back of the cabin.

That left Sebastian, Beverly, and I to the couches.

It isn't just my anxiety with flying that interferes with my sleep; the couch is more than comfortable enough, but Sebastian rotates between being a remarkably quiet sleeper, to sounding like his throat is trying to start up a chainsaw. And then there's Santana...

There were at least two times during the night where I opened my eyes to the soft tapping of her fingers on the keys of her laptop. I don't think the noise was what woke me, because she seated herself in the far chair in the cabin, and she seemed to be taking great care to work quietly. I'm sure that she was working out here instead of in bed to avoid waking Kurt.

It worries me. She's obviously sleep deprived but something keeps pulling her back to that laptop. Is she addicted to her work? Or does she just have so much to do that she feels too tense to sleep?

Each time I opened my eyes to find her working, I yearned to rub her shoulders and put her back to bed. She was wearing glasses that I had never seen before as she typed. I didn't even know that she needed glasses. Her vision seemed fine in high school, but I'm sure that the many hours she has spent staring at a computer screen could mess with that. Unsurprisingly, she managed to look both sexy and adorable in them.

She noticed my drowsy gaze on her the second time she came out. She mouthed for me to go back to sleep, and we shared a somberly sweet smile before I closed my eyes again.

At least Santana had her assistant give me Dramamine before the plane took off, or I'm not sure I would have slept at all. Santana may not have made every effort to distract me like she used to when we were on planes together, but it meant something to me that not only did she remember, but she cared enough to do something about it.

I groan, and roll over onto my other side. This time, I'm not sure if I'm going to be able to fall asleep again. I clench my eyes closed in frustration, just as Kurt decides to sit down on my legs. I didn't even notice that he had left the bed cabin area.

I hum a noise of displeasure at the unwelcome weight on my legs. He wiggles around and it sends his butt bone grinding into my calf.

"Get off, Kurt. Your bony ass is hurting me," I whine in a thick voice.

"How dare you! My ass is perfectly cushioned." He lifts his bottom anyway, and I curl my legs up so he can sit down on the couch.

Looking around the cabin, Beverly is absent (I'm assuming she's in the lavatory), and Sebastian has sat up and he's now stretching his neck.

"Give me a minute and I'll have something that is both filthy and witty to say about your ass," Sebastian states in a voice heavy with sleep.

"Charming," Kurt comments dryly.

I know that Kurt is attracted to Sebastian, but I also know that Kurt finds Sebastian to be cruel and abrasive. Kurt keeps me updated via text on whatever new attempt that Sebastian has made to try to get him into bed. Santana may claim that Sebastian wants more than just sex from Kurt, but Kurt isn't convinced that Sebastian is capable of that and neither am I.

Kurt refuses to so much as kiss Sebastian. I admire Kurt for it. I know Sebastian can be charming when he wants to be, and I know that Sebastian had Kurt swooning when he spent so many hours helping with the move. Kurt has done a great job sticking to his guns so far so I'm determined to keep him from making any drunken mistakes with Sebastian on this trip.

"My unique brand of charm will work on you eventually, Hummel. How was the sleepover with Santana? I've always wanted to know how she is in bed," Sebastian asks mirthfully.

I'm too tired to prevent my thoughts from shifting to how I remember Santana being in bed.

_Ugh._

I really don't want to go there again. My vibrator is overworked, and I can't tell you how guilty I felt when I allowed someone else to relieve my frustration. I wanted to get my mind off of Santana, but it only made it worse.

"She doesn't snore, she doesn't thrash around like a maniac, and she smells delectable. I've slept with far worse," Kurt confesses methodically.

My eyes instinctively jump to Sebastian, because I know he's going to have some filthy retort for that.

"Don't look at me, Fabray. That wasn't a jab at my ability to please," he leers at me.

"I was speaking generally. Sebastian and I have not slept together," Kurt confirms what I already know.

"Yet." Sebastian's eyebrows wave.

"Maybe you'd have a better chance if you weren't such an arrogant dick," I suggest, shifting up so I can lean against Kurt.

Despite my words, Kurt's eyes are clearly focused on Sebastian's bare upper body. Sebastian is thin, but his has a sculpted physique. It doesn't make much sense given his expressed aversion to physical activity.

I feel Kurt's pain. I know what it's like to be attracted to someone who you know is probably not good for you.

"If I were that dickish, I would point out that the bags under your eyes are perfect for your shrew of a personality," Sebastian counters.

My head slides off of Kurt's shoulder as my friend shifts to reprimand Sebastian.

"There are bags under my eyes, because you snored like a dying lawn mower last night. What's your face's excuse?" I jump in before Kurt can try to defend me.

"I'm fond of you, Fabray. You have the wit of a prepubescent Sebastian, although I've been told that I'm more of a sleep talker than a lawn mower," Sebastian compliments me backhandedly.

"You and Quinn have that in common apparently," Kurt snickers.

I'm aghast at Kurt's disclosure. I know exactly what he's referencing to.

"Thank you for bringing up one of the most embarrassing moments of my high school career Kurt, real nice," I hiss.

"Morning, Bitches," Santana greets as she emerges from the bed cabin.

She's in a form-fitting tank top, and baggy drawstring cotton pants. I self-consciously shake my fingers through my choppy haircut. I'm sure that it looks terrible after my night spent tossing and turning.

Santana's hair, on the other hand, cascades down her shoulders, and lays perfectly in a way that has always made me envious. No matter what odd positions she used to sleep in or how much sex we would have, she would only have to drive her hand through her hair once, and it was like nothing ever happened.

"Speak of the sex dream devil," Kurt continues the little game he's playing. I move to the end of the couch because I no longer have any interest in cuddling with him.

"I'm sure that I don't want to know whatever the fuck it is that you're talking about," Santana dismisses.

"But I do; I love an embarrassing story, please do go on," Sebastian urges.

"When we were flying to NYC for our show choir Nationals junior year, Quinn here, moaned Santana's name in her sleep," Kurt recalls.

Sebastian chuckles enthusiastically.

I was mortified to wake up to Mercedes, Tina, and Kurt all laughing at me. Santana and I were in a really confusing place at that time, and the last thing I wanted was for anyone to know that I was having sex dreams starring Santana Lopez.

"And yet you didn't come out until _after_ college?" Sebastian comments snidely.

I hate how much Sebastian knows about me. I'm grateful that more didn't come out of the Rachel incident, but I don't appreciate how Sebastian got such an expansive look into my past because of it. I don't trust him, and it's clear that he uses information against others.

"Not everyone has parents who are willing to write to teenage heartthrobs pleading with them to go with their son to Prom," Santana jabs, and diverts the conversation away from me.

She bends down to grab a water from the fridge cooler and her loose pants tighten to reveal the real shape of her ass. My mouth goes dry and I think about how there should be some rule about exes being _that_ attractive.

"I had already dated all of the gay boys at my school! How the hell did you know about that?" Sebastian demands in a flustered fashion.

Santana leans back on the arm of the couch, and shrugs smugly.

"How did we get on this topic, more importantly?" she asks of the room.

"Oh, Sebastian asked me how you were in bed," Kurt answers.

"I'm sure Quinn would have a much firmer hold on that subject than Kurt would, Sebastian, and even then it's been years," Santana snarks casually.

It strikes me how easy it is for her to refer to our past sex life. I suppose that it's the normal thing, and not an uncommon attitude for someone to have after all of these years. Most likely it's because it doesn't send her heart racing as it does mine. Perhaps she doesn't remember it as vividly as I do.

"They were talking about sleeping habits," I clarify with a swallow.

Santana squints suspiciously over at Kurt.

"What'd you say about me, Fancy?" she grills.

"I said that you were a fine sleeping partner, but if you're going to call me names then I will say that you heat up like a furnace at night; the warmth radiating off of you alone was enough to make me sweat," Kurt exposes.

"That's so true!" I support Kurt's observation a tad too enthusiastically than I intend to.

I was grateful for that trait of hers on cold nights, especially that one summer night when we went camping (I had to bribe her with the promise of trying a sexual position that I knew she wanted, a back rub, and an entire batch of cookies before she grumblingly agreed to go). But sometimes, it was just too much and I would have to carefully escape from her sleeping limbs, and bunch myself up on the far side of the bed. Regularly, she would partially wake up while I was trying to get away, and she would pull me back into her with a dream-laced mumble or two. If I succeeded in my separation, she would glower and complain in the morning about how I had stopped cuddling with her during the night.

Finally, we came to the compromise that we would touch butts if her body heat was too much for me.

"There are worse things for someone to do in their sleep," Santana argues.

Her eyes fall on mine, and for a moment, I would bet anything that our mind's are in the same place. I shiver, which is ironic, since we are talking about how hot her body gets when she sleeps.

"I can't argue with that. Sadie's a sleep groper. I questioned her bisexuality until the fifth time that I had to swat her hands away from my ass and crotch," Kurt agrees, and I'm now thankful that I've never shared a bed with Sadie.

"Oh my god, yes she does! Has she ever grinded on you in her sleep? I wake her ass up when she does that because it's the most uncomfortable shit," Santana concurs repugnantly.

It's amusing to imagine Santana's reaction to waking up to Sadie's body thrusting against hers. I ignore the more unfortunate twist in my stomach at the thought.

"No, thank goodness. That's disturbing. I'd be on the floor in about 2.5 seconds if she ever sleep humped me." Kurt's face scrunches in revulsion.

Beverly exits the bathroom just as Kurt's face is returning to normal, and I decide that it's an appropriate time for me to get cleaned up and ready for the day.

* * *

We have less than an hour left of our flight when I shift into the chair next to where Santana is working. I pull my legs under me, and open my book. I made a half-hearted attempt to watch whatever silly action movie that Kurt and Sebastian are engaged in, but eventually I gave up entirely.

My life is so much more unpredictable now that I've reconnected with everyone. When I woke up this morning I expected to spend this week on my handful of painting commissions and the three photography gigs that I had set up. I had been planning to visit the Farmer's Market on Thursday, and I was moderately looking forward to my date on Saturday.

But now, I'm sitting on a private jet that is larger than some of the tiny commercial planes I've been on, and I'm flying to Italy of all places.

When I was getting accosted this afternoon by messages and calls from both Kurt and Sadie I was in a complete state of disbelief. Neither of them would say more about how this whole scheme started than that Santana had work in Italy. I've never been to Italy before and the prospect of spending time in a place I've always wanted to see with Kurt, Sadie, and admittedly Santana was tempting. My schedule was certainly not packed, and Kurt was offering me an opportunity to be on . I was hesitant because it was such an unexpected proposal. I wouldn't say that I am incapable of spontaneity but I do appreciate having a plan a decent time in advance.

It was the email from Rachel that pushed me from "this is absolutely crazy and I shouldn't even be considering it" into the realm of "how dare she think everything is about her", and now here I am.

I called Santana for the first time in years today. Her voice, which I had become accustomed to being smooth and collected, was uneven when she answered with a simple "Hello." From there our conversation flowed easily, and she seemed just as flabbergasted by our friends as I did. It was nice to find a common ground with her.

It's an itching feeling, perhaps, although that doesn't quite describe the sensation of Santana's eyes migrating over the skin of my face and neck. It's itching in the way that I know that it's a compulsion that I should not scratch. It's there, but I should probably ignore it. However, unlike a true itch, this feeling is not unpleasant.

"Still a little bookworm, Fabray?" Santana notes well before I've managed to read a full 20 pages.

I tilt my book into my chest.

"Bookworm? You loved reading, too, you were just too cool to admit it most of the time," I dispute.

Santana's eyes fill with a darker brown.

"I was an asshole and an idiot," she insults dryly.

Santana did more than her share of shitty things in high school (to be fair so did I), but Santana also did many wonderful things.

"Even at your worst you were still pretty great," I assert softly. I bite down on my lower lip, and Santana unexpectedly closes her laptop.

"That's not true, and you know it," she contests darkly.

I set my book down on its face on the arm of the chair.

"I meant as a person, Santana. Good people do bad things; that doesn't make them bad people," I recite.

Santana scoffs, and crosses one of her legs over the other. She's back in one of her pantsuits, although she's not wearing a jacket over her blouse. I'm distracted by the slope of her collarbone.

"That cliché never made any sense to me. If you disregard a person's actions, then how do you tell the good from the bad?" Her eyes are piercing.

It's a very good question. I'm afraid to answer it incorrectly, because I feel as though this is far more than a random philosophical discussion.

"It's not exactly a scientific analysis. Actions matter, but I think it's more of a holistic thing," I suggest.

"Like a balancing test? If someone does enough good then it cancels out the bad?"

"I don't think anything is ever cancelled out. It doesn't work like that." I shake my head.

I had a very religious upbringing, but even at my most dutiful, I never made peace with the idea that all would be forgotten if only one asks for forgiveness.

Santana waits for my motion to cease before she speaks again.

"Then how does it work?"

"I'm not an expert. I just think that people should do the best they can when they can. That's really all anyone can do." Honestly, it's not something that I've thought too much about, although Santana obviously has. I'm clearly not prepared for this conversation.

"So the people who don't put the effort into doing the good thing or the right thing are the bad people? Or the people who put effort into doing the bad thing or the wrong thing?" she presses.

"It's not black and white. Good, bad, right, wrong, they're only principles. They aren't proper labels for living, breathing people. It's all too relative, and people are too dynamic for that. In Death in the Afternoon Hemingway wrote something like_ I know only that what is moral is what you feel good after and what is immoral is what you feel bad after_," I recall.

My words seem to do nothing to assuage whatever conflict Santana is battling. In fact, they caused a deeper etching of the struggle on Santana's features.

"You would quote Hemingway," Santana teases with an inauthentic laugh.

The opportunity to attempt to nudge Santana into opening up further is lost when Kurt calls over from the couch.

"What happened to your arm?" Kurt interrupts, referring to the bandage on Santana's bicep. It's definitely better than the makeshift dressing that she made at my wall reveal.

"Just a scratch," Santana minimizes with a mumble.

I didn't say anything to Kurt about what happened that day, save for mentioning that Santana and I talked and it went really well. I wouldn't be surprised if Sadie said something to Kurt and Kurt has been waiting for the right moment to ask about it ever since. Or maybe he just noticed the wrapping. Either way, I doubt that Santana is going to offer much in the way of an explanation.

"From what?" Kurt follows up.

"It happened while I was working, Kurt. That's all I can say," Santana shuts him down.

"Loosen up, Stripperella. They know to keep their mouths shut, and it's such a fun little anecdote," Sebastian purrs, swinging his arm back to rest behind Kurt on the couch.

"That's the Xanax talking," Santana cites.

Apparently Sebastian's flight anxiety is more extreme than mine. When Beverly offered me the Dramamine, Sebastian was quick to say that he had something far more effective.

"I'll be vague, and I'll replace important details. It's not like Kurt is going to call up the City's fish merchants' guild to tell them what he knows," Sebastian declares.

I'm definitely curious as to what happened that day, but I'm not curious enough to push Santana in the way that Sebastian is currently doing. She looks like she's ready to strangle him with one of the airplane blankets.

"Fish merchants?" I repeat without thinking.

"Yes. See? The switching is entertainment already," Sebastian gloats in Santana's direction.

"Enough," Santana commands, and I can tell by her jaw that she's gritting her teeth.

"Your mother writes my checks, not you. As I was saying, we were hired by this influential fish merchant, because someone tried to kill him in his sleep. His...fishermen caught the potential killer before the deed was done, but no matter how much they fish slapped him they couldn't get the man to talk. He told them that he was hired by someone, but that was all they could get out of him," Sebastian continues despite Santana's warning. He's talking about potential homicide and yet it is obvious how humorous he finds it all to be.

Santana, however, looks anything but amused.

"Yeah, real vague, Sebastian," she sneers.

Kurt is immediately enraptured by the not-so-thinly veiled story. I don't know anything about the mob or any sort of organized crime, but it's obvious that Sebastian and Santana weren't playing schoolyard games.

Fear for her grips my heart tighter than it did when I noticed her bleeding at the wall reveal. I watch her chest puff in anger, and I search her face as if it will somehow hold any sort of answer for me.

_How did you get here, Santana?_

It's the question I'm desperate to ask, but I'm not even sure that she knows the answer.

"They wouldn't call the police because they didn't want any attention on their _fishy_ business. So, it was our job to find out who arranged for the hit. This fish business, it's a family business, you see, and one of the cousins that we needed to interview wouldn't meet us anywhere but his office. We go in, and it takes Lopez all of twelve minutes to decide that this is our man. She gives us the indication, and from there it's a waiting game. I send the text off to our contact, and now we have to stall this guy until they show up." Sebastian knows that he isn't being that clever. He's trying to get a rise out of Santana for whatever reason. I wonder how often he tests her like this; I think he's done it in some form every time I've been around the two of them.

I want him to stop, because I'm afraid of what Santana may do. Her body is rigid next to mine.

It's definitely a change from the woman I remember; the Santana I knew used to shake when she was trying to control her temper. But this Santana is entirely still.

"But the fish grandmother is there when they get the word, and she can't stop herself from calling up our man to tell him what an unloyal sack of shit he is. He takes off, rolling his fat ass over the steps' railing to jump down into the warehouse. I've never seen a big fellow run that fast. He ran like he was being chased by Death himself," Sebastian laughs wickedly at the memory.

Kurt and I exchange a sickened look, just as the Captain informs us that we need to strap ourselves into our seats to prepare for landing.

We do so silently, although Santana makes a pit stop by the fridge to fetch a clementine. With just one look, she then intimidates Kurt away from the chair that he was going to take.

She sits down next to Sebastian, and Kurt chooses the seat by mine.

"Did he get away?" Kurt reinvigorates the conversation.

I squeeze his wrist in admonishment and he mouths an annoyed "what?" at me.

"Absolutely not. Santana chased that hog down like she was back at whatever podunk farm she grew up on. But she sliced her arm nicely on a piece of machinery when she tackled him." Sebastian seems to find gratification in the fact that Santana was hurt.

The farm bit is a weak insult at best. I'm sure that Sebastian knows that while Santana grew up in a small town, she certainly didn't grow up on a farm.

It isn't a knife wound or a bullet graze, but the revelation doesn't bring me any comfort. Santana's engaged in a more fucked up world than I ever thought.

"Story time is over," Santana growls.

"Once you gave him to the family what happened?" Kurt presses on.

I push my nails into his wrist to signal him to stop, but he yanks his arm away from me with an offended look.

I don't want to know anymore. I don't want to know what happened to that man. It makes me sick to my stomach to even think of Santana being involved in something like that. Isn't it dangerous for Kurt and I to even have information like this? Perhaps that's part of why Santana was so adamant about stopping this conversation.

"We don't know. We don't ask. They wouldn't tell us if we did. I have a few educated guesses, however-" Sebastian alludes.

There's no remorse to his tone. He merely sounds entertained by the possibilities.

Are they going to be doing something similar in Italy?

This trip feels suddenly and irrevocably tainted.

"That's horrible. How do you live with yourself?" a disturbed Kurt asks.

I think bitterly that at least this conversation is distracting me from the plane's descent.

"What's so horrible about it? Why do you have such empathy for an attempted murderer?" Sebastian's face appears between the seats.

"You don't even know if he actually did it!" Kurt slaps his hand down on his left armrest.

"He did it," Santana inputs without a shred of doubt in her tone.

I'm not sure if her self-assurance makes it any better.

Kurt looks over at me as if to say "is this really happening?" before he returns to his argument.

"Say he did do it, it's still not your place to hand him over to people who are going to hurt him. It makes you just as bad as they are," Kurt claims judgmentally.

"Who's to say that the American justice system is any better than the one they have? You've been conditioned to believe that things are supposed to be a particular way, but that's not reality, sweetheart. The only real difference between your morals and theirs is that yours come in a box that is wrapped with a pretty ribbon and an approval stamp from the government." Sebastian's head disappears as he faces forward once again.

"And what about your morals, Sebastian? Do you have any?" I interject bitingly.

"I do what I'm hired to do. My morals are irrelevant. Unlike the majority of the population, Santana and I do not choose to live by rules based on the arbitrary ideas of others. We don't delude ourselves into thinking that the law is anything more than a flawed societal construct." Sebastian wears condescension like a second skin. It's just one more characteristic to add to the list of things that are snakelike about him.

"Your silver tongue doesn't change the fact that you do vile and depraved work," Kurt proclaims.

"Where were your objections when Santana restrained that reporter in the alleyway? Do you think that was legal? Or do you allow for exceptions when you or your friends are involved?" Sebastian challenges.

His questions do make me think. Looking back. I didn't have any moral qualms concerning Santana's actions. The woman was trying to further her career at the expense of my privacy, and Santana stopped her. But, no one was harmed in that situation.

"She was going to hurt Quinn!" Kurt justifies.

"And this man tried to hurt his cousin, and would probably have tried to have him killed again. What difference does it make?" Sebastian maintains.

"It's different." Kurt asserts without the same volume as before.

It is different. It feels different, but I can understand how Kurt finds it difficult to articulate the difference in the face of Sebastian's argumentally skilled tongue.

"It's hypocrisy. We're only a resource. If we weren't hired to do these things, they would still be done," Sebastian argues.

"And that somehow makes it better? You make it easier for them!" Kurt's volume increases once again.

"We're merely tools, Kurt. We're weapons, if you choose to think of it that way. Sure, we decrease effort, we increase speed, and we are one of the most effective choices, but we are still not the ones swinging the hammer or pulling the trigger," Sebastian analogizes.

"Sebastian, shut up." Santana breaks her silence, although her voice is almost unrecognizable.

"Why so stiff, Satan? Are you afraid your precious friends will leave you? Don't you see that I'm doing you a favor? They're not actually your friends if they don't know who you really are," Sebastian taunts.

My eyes are fixed on the seats ahead but I can still sense Kurt's apprehension beside me. He's scared, but I lack sympathy for him. Kurt is the one who pushed the conversation to this point after all.

Santana's silence feels dangerous, but unwisely, Sebastian takes it as his cue to persist.

"I bet they'd love to know how we adopted the name Snix from your schoolyard days, and how we use it to refer to you when y-" Sebastian is abruptly gagged by the clementine that Santana has been peeling.

I can't see his face from here, but there is a muffled choking noise that I assume is coming from him.

I want to laugh, but I also want to throw up. I just want this plane on the ground so I can get off of it and away from this severely unsettling situation.

"Next time you pull something like this, I will smash in your fucking windpipe," Santana promises.

No one utters another word until the landing gear has been deployed. Even though I'm upset with him, I allow Kurt to hold my hand while we bounce down onto the runway.

"This is overripe," Sebastian observes haughtily.

He has apparently chosen to eat the fruit that was shoved into his mouth.

I should be experiencing a combination of relief and excitement right now, because the plane has landed safely in a country that I've always wanted to explore. But I'm not experiencing either. It's trepidation that I'm graced with instead, and this looming sense of guilt over my remote associating with whatever work it is that Sebastian and Santana came here to do.

I don't know how anything will change in a minute, or an hour, certainly not in a day or a week, but right now, I no longer feel intrigued by the beautiful stranger occupying the seat ahead of me.

Instead, I feel like mourning for the girl that I once knew. I did it once; I grieved for the loss of her in my life, but I didn't imagine that I would one day feel like Santana was gone completely.

Kurt notices my dazed state, after the plane has come to a completely stop, and he reaches into my lap. Strangely enough, he manages to unclip my seatbelt perfectly in time with the splintering of my heart.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter XIV**

**A/N: For those who have been asking, I modeled Sadie physically after the actress Rachelle Lefevre.**

* * *

**Santana's POV**

The actual realization of a fear is a funny thing.

Commonly, if someone is afraid of snakes, it's not truly the snakes themselves that frighten them. It's the bite; it's the venom.

When someone is afraid of heights, it isn't the distance from the ground that they fear. It's the crushing impact.

Because, without a doubt, my fear is not actually that the people I care about will discover who I am; my real fear is that I will lose them because of it.

People fear pain. That's really what it all boils down to, isn't it? I'm no different than most people; despite what Kurt and Quinn may now think.

Most fears are logical in some form. You're gripped with panic when you see a snake, because it's reasonable to think that the snake is capable of biting you. You're frightened when you see that the ground is far below you, because there is a possibility that you could fall into it.

So when Sebastian shined a light on one of the arguably distasteful aspects of my job, I should have expected my fear to come to fruition.

But not all fears are as logical as they seem; or well, at least the realization of those fears are not. Because despite my years of training, and my undeniable natural ability to read expressions, body language, and tone among many other things, I don't want to believe that I was right.

It's illogical because I know that my fear has been realized.

Not with Kurt. I'm not sure how differently he sees me now, but on our car ride to the hotel he made two different attempts to speak to me. He's disturbed by what Sebastian uncovered for him, but his guilt over encouraging it is palpable. I'm aggravated with him, but I'm relieved to have indications that he is not going to dismiss me automatically because it.

_But Quinn._

Quinn who I can only tentatively call a friend. Quinn who, at one time, thought the world of me. She's gone. She may be physically walking just ahead of me into the hotel lobby, but as far as I'm concerned she may as well be back in NYC.

It's not that she didn't say one word through all of customs, and during the entire car ride; that could have more than one explanation. The end of our flight was tense and acrimonious, after all.

In all likelihood, if I wasn't me then I wouldn't know so absolutely.

But I do. The message on her face couldn't be any clearer to me if it were flashing on a jumbo sized billboard.

The cynical part of me urges that I be grateful to Sebastian. This is just a small piece of the picture and if seeing it was enough to cause Quinn to shut down, then it's better to have it happen now, at the beginning, rather than later after we've grown closer.

It's a strange phenomenon, however, that although I'm positive that whatever that window she had opened for me into her life has closed, I still feel the dread. It's almost as if I fear that I have more to lose.

I'm shaken by how much I care for her given the reality of our relationship. We are barely friends. Or rather, we were.

It's pathetic how often my eyes sweep over to Quinn's face as we check-in at the hotel desk. I keep searching for a change that I know I won't see.

I'm the only one that has anything to say to the front desk woman; Sadie's roommate is bunking elsewhere for the week, so Kurt and Quinn don't have to pay for a room. Sebastian has a separate room from Beverly and I, although Rachel has already insisted that I'll stay with her.

When we reach the elevators, I'm overwhelmed by the desire to say something to Quinn. Once we get settled, I don't know how long it will be before I'll have the chance to speak with her because I need to start working right away, and Sadie will be all over Quinn, I'm sure.

I awkwardly shuffle to position myself next to my ex-girlfriend.

"Could we talk before we go upstairs?" I ask her as the elevator doors slide open.

She looks stunned, but her eyes remain fixed on the elevator. Sebastian, Kurt, and Beverly step inside.

"I don't know what we could have to talk about," Quinn responds in a monotone voice.

Kurt glances back at the two of us as he joins Sebastian and Beverly in the elevator. I should feel embarrassed to have Quinn reply that way in front of everyone, but for some reason I'm not. I'm also not sure why I'm even trying given how convinced I am that this is a lost cause.

Kurt holds the door open, focused mostly on Quinn. He waits patiently for her to make her decision.

"Please," I insist. I'm certainly not one to beg, but hell, what does it matter at this point?

Quinn gestures for the group to go up without us, and steps away with me to the side of the elevators. Her face is a perfect replica of the icy mask that she was known for in high school.

She's obviously waiting for me to speak, but I honestly don't know what I have to say. I don't have an excuse for what Sebastian told them, and I also don't know why I feel obligated to answer to Quinn of all people, in any case.

In fact, I'm angry. I'm angry with her, and I'm angry with myself for caring.

"Good talk, Santana," she comments sarcastically, tugging at her luggage to move back to the elevator.

"You said you'd try." It's out of my mouth before I even understand what it means.

Quinn pauses.

"What?"

"After the wall reveal when you were walking me to work you said you would try," I remind her.

She said that she'd be willing to try a friendship with me. She said that she'd try to be here for me. Part of me feels pathetic for bringing it up, and for demonstrating to her that I remember what she said so clearly.

"We've made a lot of promises to each other that we couldn't keep." Her voice is cold, but there is a definite crack in her armor.

She's right. We promised each other things like "forever" and "always". We have both done things that we swore that we would never do.

"Is this one of them?" I challenge softly.

Quinn sighs heavily, reaching up to squeeze the back of her own neck. I hate how difficult she is for me to read sometimes. I get lost in my own thoughts and feelings, and it fucks with my ability to know what she's thinking.

In high school, I noticed that I was more observant than the average person. My mother had told me, from a very young age, that I was a gifted reader like she was, but I didn't really understand what that meant until I was older. I believe that I subconsciously put up a block for Quinn sometime in late middle school. The only thing scarier to me than my feelings for her were her possible feelings for me.

It's a defense mechanism for me to deliberately refrain from reading someone. I haven't done it much with her since she's been back; however, it's been my own confusion rather than any purposeful action that's prevented me from figuring her out.

"Santana. It's been _how_ many months since I went to see you perform at that bar? I can count the conversations that you and I have had on two hands. I said I would try to be your friend based essentially on the memory I have of you, because I had very little else to go on. But you aren't _her_. I didn't know what I was getting myself into." She sounds about as displeased with herself as I feel about myself.

The cut on my arm seems to throb under my bandage as a reminder of exactly how little it took for her to decide that I wasn't worth getting to know.

I press my lips together, scanning her unique hazel. There's resignation there, disappointment, and a pain that I feel as though I can identify with. The fear I see, however, is the most curious.

"What are you afraid of?" I inquire.

"Who said this has anything to do with fear?" she bristles, and it's enough confirmation for me to know that this indeed has something to do with fear.

My work can be dangerous, I won't deny that, and I have my own concerns about my friends getting involved in any of it. But her fear seems to be directed towards me rather than my work.

"I would never hurt you," I swear. For me, it goes without saying. Could she really believe that I have changed that much?

"I think I know that, but that's not the point. Do you know why I called Mercedes in the first place? It was because I had watched you walk past the wall for four weeks. I wanted nothing more than to get to know you again. But if it wasn't for Kurt, Sadie, and Brittany, I would regret that decision to call Mercedes entirely," she confesses.

_Four weeks._

My heart doesn't know how to respond in my chest.

She came to the show for me. She had watched me, and she had wanted to know me.

I had known that she was in NYC for months, and I had never reached out to her in the least.

It's a truth that I'm sure I would have seen before had I only been willing to look.

But she regrets it.

She regrets the part involving me, anyway.

"I knew it. I don't know why I wasted my time with this talk because I knew that you had made your mind up about me. It was written all over you," I accuse bitterly.

She takes an aggressive step toward me, raising a demanding finger to my face.

"Don't you do that shit with me, Santana. You stay the _fuck_ out of my head," she orders.

It's been awhile since I've seen her temper flare like this. She seems much more in control of her emotions than she used to be.

I want to tell her that I don't want to see what fucked up shit she thinks about me, but I know that it won't get us anywhere.

"I don't understand why you're so bothered by this. My work has nothing to do with you," I assert.

"I'm furious with myself for hoping that you were someone that you aren't," she admits.

"You said yourself that we've had less than ten conversations, and yet your judgment has been made. No, I'm not the same 18-year-old girl that you remember, but you _abandoned_ that girl. If you're unwilling to get to know who I am then that's your decision, but don't pretend like you know anything more about me than I know about you," I snarl.

I don't know why I'm still fighting for this. I don't even know what I'm fighting for. The occasional text message conversation?

"Abandoned? Abandoned?! You broke up with me!" she yells.

She doesn't seem to give two shits that there are people waiting for the elevators behind her. It's a far cry from the girl who would only allow whispered arguments if there was even a chance of others being around.

"What was I supposed to do? Wait around in hopes that you would be able to give me a _maybe_ one day?"

"Santana, if I had come out for you and not myself I would have resented you for it. I had to do it for me," her voice levels out, and she bites down on the inside of her cheek.

"I didn't want you to do it for me. I wanted to wait until you were ready, but I needed to fucking know that you saw the possibility of it happening one day," I clarify.

I wasn't asking for it to happen right away, I wasn't even asking for a timeline. I was so desperately in love with her that I was willing to wait as long as it took so long as I knew that it could happen someday. I knew that she would probably lose her family if she came out, and their support, and I never wanted her to make that choice because of _me_. I wanted it for her, whether she believes that or not.

"I couldn't give you that! Because I didn't see it, okay? I didn't see how being in an open lesbian relationship could ever fit into my life plan. I didn't know how we were going to work, I thought we just would." She trails off thoughtfully at the end.

"Well we didn't, and I didn't see coming, but I also didn't expect for you to change your number, block me on Facebook, and cut all of our friends off as well. You weren't just my girlfriend, you were my _best_ friend."

The words seem to hang between us. It's not that I want to take them back, but I wish I had sounded a little less pitiful when I said them.

Quinn's eyes lighten, in a way that reminds me of the shifting of clouds. Her fury has diminished considerably at my words. And it's almost as if she is looking at me again, rather than whatever villain she has declared me to be.

"You were my best friend too. You were my _everything_. That was the problem. I couldn't be a friend or even an acquaintance to you when you were everything to me. I had to grow the fuck up, but you were an addiction for me. I knew I wouldn't be able to function otherwise. It was torture for me in high school during those months that I had to be a bystander in your life. After having you so completely, I just couldn't do it again," she says it with the brand of misery that can only accompany absolute devotion.

At least I'm not the only one who still has an abnormal reaction to something that happened so many years ago.

There it is. I finally have my explanation from her mouth. It's bittersweet, to say the least, to know why she disappeared so completely, when she's about to do it again.

"And yet it's exactly what you're suggesting now." We would only be seeing each other more frequently in the coming months, especially with Brittany's wedding coming up, but apparently she would rather treat me like a stranger than a friend.

"You're not the only person who has changed." Her icy mask has returned.

"Yeah, but the difference is that you've made up your mind that you've changed for the better and I for the worst," I shoot back at her.

She cocks her head at me, her eyes almost squinting.

"I'm not going to tell anyone else what I heard on the plane if that's what you're so worried about," she scathes.

Something snaps inside of me.

"Fuck you. Fuck you for assuming my motivations, and fuck you for being the one to walk away first when you know the least of everyone. I was stupid to let you in at all."

She doesn't shift away from me, and her eyes don't flash with anything but cold confusion.

"This sudden interest is a little baffling, Santana, you have to admit," she responds calmly.

"You're right. I don't know why I'm making such a fuss about losing someone who I haven't had in years," I say sorely.

"I don't know either."

It's so emotionless.

It makes me want to scream.

"You once showed me the good in myself. You made me believe that I was more than a good back tuck, or an even better fuck. You allowed me to be _more._ You made that okay for me. But I never belonged in heaven in the fucking first place. I didn't fall from grace. So I don't know why you now feel as though I'm not good enough to even know you."

"You were a bully. We both were, Santana. That is a far cry from what you are now," she barbs.

_What I am now? Fuck her._

"You don't know what I am now. And you know, maybe you were far kinder to me than I deserved after your wall reveal. And I'm sure that you deserve every ounce of adoration that my friends have for you. I don't doubt that you've grown into an even more amazing person than the girl who held me for hours after my father disowned me despite the fact that I had slept with some other girl just days before. Okay? I can try to villainize you in my head, as you've done me, all that I want, but I can't deny that I feel lighter and heavier all at the same time every time you're around. But thank you, thank you for doing it now. Thank you for leaving now rather than leaving after 13 years of loving you," I finish heatedly.

She turns away from me so I can't read her face.

"I'll take the steps," she mumbles.

"With your suitcase?" I call after her.

"Yeah," she mutters back as she pushes open the door to the stairwell.

I cover my mouth with my hand, unsure of myself, and my own body. I can only remember one time where I've put that much of myself and my truths out there only to be rejected. Of course, it was with Quinn. But that time, I didn't blame her in the least for it. I had given her so many mixed signals for so long, and I had refused repeatedly to talk to her about how I felt about her. So when I was finally ready to lay it all on the line, she had convinced herself that she'd never be safe with me. It took three weeks of letters in her locker, and a marching band performance to convince her otherwise.

This was different, and not just because I don't have socially stunted marching band kids who are willing to do just about anything for the head cheerleader.

It's different because I wasn't asking for her heart this time; I was merely asking for a chance to be more than an acquaintance to her.

Apparently it was too much to ask.

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

It's been two days since I've seen Santana.

I've seen so many other amazing things, however. I've even managed to have a somewhat enjoyable time with Rachel during the two times that she's been able to join us on our adventures. She's been civil, and Kurt and Sadie have served as excellent buffers whenever one of us threatens to snap on the other.

Mostly, I've been running around with Kurt while he gathers ideas for his spread. I've been permanently attached to my camera, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Despite how much fun I'm having, I must admit, that it's nice to sit still for awhile. Sadie, Kurt, and I are waiting in Rachel's trailer for the starlet to finish her last scene of the day.

Sadie is pointing a personal fan at her neck, and she's leaning back to separate her hair from her skin to avoid messing it up. It's uncomfortably hot outside, and Rachel's stuffy trailer is barely an improvement over the thick outdoor air.

"I wish Britt was here. I can tolerate teaching the most uncoordinated of kids, but I have zero patience for rhythmically challenged adults," Sadie complains.

Kurt and I were able to watch Sadie's scene today, and from my limited dancing knowledge, the cast didn't seem to perform too poorly. Although, it was still glaringly obvious that Sadie was the most experienced of the bunch. She's moves like no one else I've ever seen before. I used to hate watching her dance because I found her talent to be intimidating, and it didn't help that I usually saw her when she was dancing with Santana. But now, even when she's doing high school musical choreography, it feels like I'm watching art in motion.

"Good thing you never had to help Finn Hudson with choreography," I retort.

I honestly don't know if I've ever met someone more uncoordinated than my ex-boyfriend.

"Am I supposed to know that name?" Sadie asks in a disinterested tone.

"Quinn and Rachel's ex-boyfriend and my step-brother," Kurt explains simply.

Finn was around quite a bit when Sadie began hanging out with the group, although not as often as the other Glee kids. After his falling out with Santana and I early senior year, we pretty much stopped spending time with him.

"Football player? Attached to Puck's non-Santana occupied hip?" Sadie remembers.

"Yeah, until Santana kicked Finn's ass at her Halloween party," Kurt explains.

Finn had drank more than his share of alcohol, and became rather aggressive towards me that night. Needless to say, Santana lost her temper.

"She did not kick his ass." Not that she couldn't have, but I stopped her before she did any real damage. I'm pretty sure that he ate a mouthful of grass because of her, however.

"Ohh, I was there wasn't I? That was a good party besides that asshole," she reminisces.

It was one of the first few moments where I started to recognize Sadie for who she was rather than the Santana-stealing monster that I had made her out to be. We weren't exactly on civil terms at the time, but she intervened with Finn without a second thought.

"Have you heard from Santana?" Kurt questions Sadie.

She stretches her lithe limbs before answering.

"No, but Rachel said that she's came to bed past two both nights that you guys have been here," she responds with a yawn.

_Came to bed._

I knew that Santana was sharing Rachel's room. It's not news by any means, but it does make me wonder if Sadie knows what is going on between the two of them.

More pressingly, I'm anxious at the thought of what Santana could be doing until such a late hour.

I'm really not sure if I pushed her away because I don't agree with what she does or because I'm scared to get close to someone who I could possibly lose given the dangerous nature of her work.

"I hope she's okay," Kurt remarks while peering out the trailer window.

"I'm sure she is," Sadie offers with a bounce of her shoulders.

She's analyzing me. I can feel it. I ignore her gaze, and turn my attention down to my camera instead.

"Okay. Spill, Fabray. You look even weirder than you normally do when Santana's name is mentioned," she commands.

"I don't-it's not-" I stutter. I don't even know where to begin.

I haven't sorted through my own feelings, to be honest. After our flight, I was so sure that I was going to squash any potential of a friendship with Santana. But then she opened up to me in such an unexpected and vulnerable way, that I find myself second guessing my decision. Part of me feels terrible for walking away from her when I did. The other part of me feels as though it was for the best.

"Sebastian gave us a little insight into Santana's work and now Quinn is worried that her ex-girlfriend isn't the dark but redeemable crusader that she always made her out to be. Quinn has decided that she doesn't want anything to do with her anymore," Kurt interjects.

I must have not completely lost my HBIC abilities, because when I glare at Kurt, he visibly recoils.

I'm getting real tired of him inserting himself into places where he doesn't belong, especially when I see that Sadie's face is practically rippling with irritation.

"Are you fucking serious?" she flares, shutting off her fan to sit up.

"What?" I ask.

I'm taken aback by how suddenly my friend's mood has changed. I've never seen her look at me like this before.

"Is it really that easy for you?" she poses incredulously.

"We're really not on the same page right now, Sadie." It's an understatement, given how I have no idea what she means.

"Kurt. Get out. Go find one of the super flexible and even more gay chorus members to distract you from Sebastian," Sadie directs.

As soon as he shuts the door behind him, Sadie digs into me.

"Here's the deal, Blondie. Whatever connection you have with Santana is one of the realest fucking things that I've ever seen. Do you think it's an everyday thing to not see someone for seven years and then look at eachother in the pathetically obvious way that the two of you do? Because it's not. You two have never been an "everyday" thing. Do you get it?" Sadie scolds.

Her normally pale complexion has reddened considerably.

I don't need anyone to highlight the connection that I have with Santana. I'm well aware that there is something between us that I've never experienced with anyone else. I spent many years trying to deny its existence, but I'm beyond that. I recognize now that it is something that I have to deal with.

"You think I don't know that? But whatever it is between us, it doesn't magically make our problems go away," I argue.

Sadie gestures at me wildly with her hands.

"It pisses me the fuck off how much time the two of you have spent fighting something that I've always been willing to fight for," she expresses, slamming the fan down onto the counter.

"I know you and Santana-"

"Oh my fucking god. This is not about me and Santana. That ship sailed, sank, and will never be excavated. And I'm beyond grateful that I got the friendship that I did from it, because she is the best friend that I have ever had. So whatever judgment you've passed on her based on whatever that Lucifer of a man said, you might as well be passing on me," Sadie asserts passionately.

Usually, at this point, when someone else is telling me how I should feel, or act, or live my own life, I become offended to say the least. But there's a genuineness, that's completely void of condescension, in Sadie's presentation that halts any inclinations to lash out that I may have.

I am rather lost, however, because I know that part of the reason that Kurt and Sadie befriended me in the first place was because they didn't agree with Santana's job.

"You're the one who was worried about her work," I contend.

Sadie appears completely frustrated and exasperated with me.

"Not because I have any moral issues with what she does, it's because I know she doesn't feel good about it. There's a big fucking concept that you aren't grasping here. I'd hide a body for that girl, but I take real issue with standing around while she is so obviously unhappy. Do you understand the difference?" she questions.

"I don't know where this is-"

"I sleep around. I sleep around a lot, and that's no fucking secret. I do it because I enjoy sex. But I would trade all of the hot no strings attached sex in a New York minute, if it meant that I got to experience a tenth of what you and Santana have. Watching the two of you is about as fucking close to religion as I'm ever going to get," Sadie admits with an intensity that I've never seen from her before.

I have no idea how to respond to all of that. The thoughts are unwelcome, especially when I'm not sure if I want Santana in my life at all.

Rachel Berry, of all people, saves me from having to formulate a response, as she determinedly throws open the trailer door .

"Sadie, for the last time, this is not your trailer. You can't banish people from it, especially someone whose alabaster skin is as sensitive as Kurt's is," Rachel chastises.

Kurt follows in behind her, and he looks far more amused than the situation calls for.

"Check your grin, Lady Hummel, your hag doesn't scare me," Sadie snarks.

"I will have you know that-" Rachel begins what I can only guess will be a tirade.

Kurt shushes the room, however, his eyes fixed down on his phone.

"Sources confirm that New York's sweetheart, Rachel Berry, is engaged in a torrid lesbian affair on the set of her new film," Kurt reads with his best attempt at a serious reporter voice.

Rachel gasps and snatches the phone from Kurt's hands. Sadie is already clutching her stomach with laughter.

I'm glad that no one is looking at me, because I'm feeling quite green.

"And there are pictures!" Kurt exclaims excitedly.

Rachel pushes the phone forcefully into Sadie's lap, and I pray that it isn't going to get passed to me. The last thing I want to see are pictures of Rachel and Santana together. I've already had a front row seat to that once.

"I told you to wear pants!" Rachel barks at Sadie.

_What?_

"I was just going to grab something edible quick. It's not my fault that you only keep a stock of grass in this heap," Sadie defends with an obvious sense of entitlement.

Sadie passes the phone to me, and despite my earlier reservations, I take it without hesitation.

There are two pictures. The first one is of Rachel and Sadie walking up to the trailer, arms around one another. They do look rather cozy. The second picture is of Sadie leaving the trailer, looking admittedly guilty, and noticeably without pants.

Before I know it, I can't stop laughing.

"I have a bag of fucking Flaming Hot Cheetos in my hand in both pictures. So either Rachel has an indestructible vagina given the state of my mouth and hands, or she's a thigh humper," Sadie argues.

Rachel looks offended, albeit, somewhat amused. I hand the phone back to Kurt.

"Hey! I could have been the one giving!" Rachel claims indignantly.

"You're saying that you'd go down on me while I eat Cheetos? Let's get married," Sadie proposes.

A knock on the trailer door interrupts any further discussion.

"Rach?" Santana's muffled voice comes through.

Rachel opens the door since she's standing right next to it. Santana steps inside, and I unconsciously evaluate her appearance. Her hair has expanded slightly in the heat, but otherwise she isn't disheveled in the least. As far as I can tell, there's no bleeding, or tears in her clothing.

I wonder if her friends do the same whenever they see her.

"If you're here about the story, I must say that I have been fighting with Sadie to wear pants since we got here," Rachel places the blame on her redheaded friend.

A smirk tugs at my ex-girlfriend's mouth, which says to me that she knows exactly what Rachel is referring to, and she takes a moment to check her humor before she replies. She looks over at Kurt who is still utterly entertained by his phone.

"No, I'm not, actually, but go ahead and refresh the page, Hummel," Santana guides confidently.

We all look on in curiosity, as Kurt follows Santana's instructions. Kurt's mouth drops open after the moment passes.

"Page no longer exists," Kurt breathes in disbelief.

_How the hell did Santana do that?_

"I'll see what I can do from here, but I don't think it's going to hurt you," Santana offers simply.

Rachel throws her body into Santana's for a hug, and Sadie gives Santana a grateful wave, but doesn't move from her seat. I honestly don't think Sadie would care if people thought she was involved in a "torrid lesbian affair". Although I can't imagine Sadie being polite to any paparazzi who may come around.

"So if you're not here for that does that mean you're going out with us on the boats tonight?" Rachel concludes hopefully.

I knew that we were going out on the water tonight, but I wasn't aware that there was a possibility of Santana attending. I really need to get over whatever this is, because Santana's presence is a fact of my life now, no matter the dynamic of our relationship.

"Do you have the list of who's attending?" Santana asks.

It's an odd thing for her to ask, I feel. It makes me wonder if Santana's business here is related to Rachel and Sadie's movie. Because, if that were to be the case, it would make sense that Santana would want to know who would be joining us; she would want to avoid any conflict of interests or other sticky situations, I'm sure.

"Yes." Rachel nods eagerly, and hurries to the back of the trailer.

"Let me see it," Santana requests once Rachel triumphantly returns with a pad of paper.

Santana scans over the names carefully.

"Please, San?" Rachel begs.

"I'll know when we get back to the hotel," Santana agrees.

Rachel doesn't seem to notice how Santana's shoulders deflate as she says it.

* * *

The last few rays of the sunset are disappearing as the boat captain turns on the deck lights. When Sadie had first told me that we were doing this, I had imagined some small almost fisherman-like motorboats. This isn't exactly a yacht, but it is far bigger than I expected it to be.

After a long hot day, the wind feels fantastic on my face and in my hair. Kurt's been massaging my neck for the past few minutes; I think the couple beers that he's had already are getting to him. Not that I'm complaining.

Sadie's flirting with one of the dancers, who she introduced me to yesterday. He's handsome, although his features are more feminine than those I would have gone for when I was "straight". Her legs are draped over his lap, and he's looking at her as if she's a beautiful woman instead of an easy lay. I approve.

Santana is next to Sadie, and is in a small cluster of people that, of course, includes Rachel Berry. Every smile I've seen from her tonight has seemed strained, and from what I've noticed, she's already drank more than I would have expected from her.

When we were changing and getting ready, Sadie had called Santana into our room to do something special with her hair, and Santana didn't say one word to me while she was there.

_Who could blame her at this point though?_

I made it pretty clear that I didn't want to talk to her.

It was strange for me to watch her braid Sadie's hair when she had done it so many times for me and Brittany.

One of the other actors has repeatedly tried to strike up a conversation with me. He seems nice enough, but I'm not exactly interested in the historical ramifications of show tunes that he keeps trying to discuss with me.

"How's shooting?" Santana poses to Sadie after the other conversation dies.

"It's fucking hot," Sadie whines.

"Don't be modest. Sadie has been given more lines because the director likes her so much," Rachel butts in.

"I'm a dancer, and I'm damn good at it, but I can't act. I can't even fake an orgasm convincingly," Sadie counters.

Kurt and I both laugh into the necks of our beers. I can just imagine how unenthused Sadie would be if someone just wasn't getting it done for her in the bedroom.

"Rachel is really good at that, aren't ya, Rach? Her first year at NYADA, my god," Kurt mocks.

Oh god, I really did not want to think about Rachel Berry sounds in bed, faking or otherwise. _Gross._

"I did _not_ fake it with Brody." Rachel swings an aggravated finger in Kurt's direction.

"I would hope that you didn't have to. If there's any upside to sleeping with a hooker, it's that they know what they're doing," Sadie teases.

I've heard and seen some strange things in my life, but I can't wrap my mind around the idea of Rachel having sex with a prostitute.

"A hooker?" The actor next to me echos.

"Yes her boyfriend was a Gigolo, but I was talking about the guy after him," Kurt clarifies, and Rachel immediately changes the subject.

"Did she know he was a Gigolo?" I ask Kurt once the groups attention is diverted, quietly enough for no one else to hear.

"Oh agent Santana sniffed it out. She tried to tell Rachel, but Rachel thought that Santana was just jealous of Brody so she didn't listen," he answers in a conspiring tone.

So this thing between Rachel and Santana started years ago. _Great._

"What happened?" I press.

"Santana threatened Brody, somehow. Said she would expose him to NYADA, or turn him into the police or something to force him to tell Rachel," Kurt elaborates.

I had to hand it to Santana. She's always looked out for her friends.

"Oh," I mutter, leaning into Kurt's shoulder again, pulling his hand back to my neck.

I can vaguely hear Sadie ragging on Rachel for her diva antics concerning camera angles. Sadie refers to Rachel's nose as a beak before Rachel loses it.

I doze off briefly against Kurt until I'm roused by the persistent strumming of a guitar.

"You were the annoying musical theatre kid who carried his guitar everywhere in high school, weren't you?" Santana accuses the guitar player.

It's kinda funny, because Puck carried his guitar around more frequently than anyone else in our high school. Santana was probably one of the few people brave enough to call him annoying for it, however.

I blink until my eyes are comfortable being open again. It doesn't take long given the dim lighting. The smooth run of the boat on the water threatens to lull me back to sleep again, however.

Kurt hands me the beer that he had been keeping safe during my slumber as I reluctantly sit back against the cushion.

"If by annoying you mean more talented than you could ever hope to be, then yes," the guitar man fires back in a style reminiscent of Rachel Berry.

Santana rolls her eyes, and makes to cross her arms, but stops awkwardly when she realizes that her beer is still in her hand.

"Santana's actually very talented. We were in Glee Club together, and although she wasn't as technically skilled as me, she has more soul than most professional singers. She has a monthly gig at a bar in New York with our other friend, Puck," Rachel defends animatedly.

I hate how often she manages to compliment herself when she's praising someone else. It's always bothered me.

"Prove it," guitar man challenges.

My eyes flicker over to Santana, and she clearly does not look to be in the mood for a sing-a-long. I'm grateful, because I'm 100% sure that hearing Santana sing right now would only add to my confusion. I've always had such a weak spot for her voice.

"I don't need to prove anything to you, Bieber," Santana refuses before taking a drink from her bottle.

Guitar man doesn't appear as though he's going to press it, but I recognize the determination on Rachel's face.

"Maybe Quinn would sing with you. Given that she was also in Glee Club with us and your voices complemented each other's so well during your rendition of Take My Breath Away. I would suggest Kurt, but I think he's in danger of regressing back to his unfortunate John Mellencamp phase with the number of beers he has consumed," Rachel suggests, motioning to me.

She's right about our voices complementing one another, and although we spent many hours in Glee learning how to blend them, it was the hours that we spent outside of the choir room that really mattered. We harmonized constantly in our cars, in the locker room and in her bedroom among other places. We learned how to perfectly mesh our voices as we learned more and more about how to work as a couple.

"No. I'm not singing," I declare. Santana's eyes meet mine, and even though I can barely make out their color in this lighting, a current runs through me.

"Fuck it. I'll sing!" Sadie volunteers, breaking our gaze.

A chorus of "NO"s ring out in such fervor that I can't help but giggle. I have been unlucky enough to hear Sadie sing and yes, it's real bad.

She doesn't pout or shrink back at all. Sadie disputes the objections to her singing instead.

"Whatever. I'll do it," Santana agrees abruptly.

She moves to sit next to the guitar guy, and they converse quietly while the rest of us talk amongst ourselves.

The strumming begins softly. It seems to sneak up on all of us. It's a dark rhythm that he plays, and I'm unable to place the song until Santana sings.

_All along it was a fever_

_A cold sweat hot-headed believer_

_I threw my hands in the air, said, "Show me something,"_

_She said, "If you dare come a little closer."_

I have chills. The kind that I often used to get no matter how many hundreds of times that I heard Santana sing. But these chills are also something _more_.

The conversations on the deck are extinguished one by one by the compelling rasp that is my ex-girlfriend's voice.

_Round and around and around and around we go_

_Oh now tell me now tell me now you know_

It's awful. I can't bear to look at her, but I also can't make myself look away. And she meets my eyes so unabashedly that I'm honestly surprised that I'm still breathing.

_Not really sure how to feel about it._

_Something in the way you move_

_Makes me feel like I can't live without you._

_It takes me all the way._

_I want you to stay._

It's the perfect song. Because I really don't know how to feel about my attraction to her after all of this time. It's just something indescribable. And despite everything, I do wonder if I could live without her again.

Her tone easily overpowers the pressing, and unrelenting strumming of the guitar.

_It's not much of a life you're living_

_It's not just something you take - it's given_

It's not a conscious choice for me when my voice joins hers. Like many things involving Santana, it's a compulsion.

_Ooh the reason I hold on_

_Ooh cause I need this hole gone_

_Funny you're the broken one but I'm the only one who needed saving_

_Cause when you never see the light it's hard to know which one of us is caving_

She's not smiling while she sings, but I can see it in her eyes. Her left hand does the punctuating motion that it always seems to do. I don't care that my voice breaks slightly as it climbs.

_Not really sure how to feel about it._

_Something in the way you move_

_Makes me feel like I can't live without you._

_It takes me all the way._

_I want you to stay, stay._

_I want you to stay, oh._

"Wow," Kurt breathes.

I don't know what he's referring to exactly and I barely register the guitar man recognizing that Santana is, in fact, talented.

My thoughts are centered entirely around her.

I've heard people say before that "stay" is the saddest word in the English language, and maybe it can be. But in this moment, it's the word that we both needed to hear.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter XV**

**A/N: I really don't know where to start with this author's note. I have been more affected by this recent tragedy than I could have ever imagined. Finn, as most readers of my story would know, has not been treated kindly by me, however, I have always been fond of Cory. It's a grief that is difficult for most of us to pin down, I think. He'll always be a part of us much like this fandom has been. He's ****changed us, just as his passing has changed us (albeit in a different way). So, for all of you who are working through this difficult time, I offer my love and my condolences and all of the virtual hugs that you could ever need. We're in this together, and please, I beg you to reach out to someone if that is what you need.**

**On a less serious note, my beta ckeller48 is my favorite button. **

**Lastly, there is a trigger warning for this chapter for sexual assault. Once again, there is nothing here in the realm of graphic detail, but if you need to skip this chapter PM me and I will be more than happy to summarize the events for you. **

* * *

**Santana's POV**

It almost feels like high school again.

Except we aren't in mine or Puck's backyard; we're on a private beach, and I'm surrounded by only a few familiar faces. Although, to be fair, even at my own parties I often didn't recognize everyone there.

In high school, socializing was kinda my thing. I made it my thing, anyway, because for the first couple of years I was determined to steal the Queen Bitch title from Quinn.

But tonight, I'm not in the mood for socializing.

I'm tired, not that that is anything new. But aside from that, there's too much going on in my head to find the drunken antics of a bunch of minor celebrities enjoyable. I determined the identity of the supposed sexual assault victim today. I pray that she fabricated the story entirely, because the thought of tracking down an actual victim to force her to talk about such an event makes me want to throw myself off the nearest rocky cliff. Tomorrow will be taxing day.

The beach is illuminated by the sizable fire and the light from the boats, but I'm outside of the direct glow, having found the perfect anti-social area near the rocks. My feet are tickled every so often by the incoming tide. I try not to be offended by how quickly the water says goodbye after it gives my toes the briefest of hellos.

Quinn has never been heavy on her feet, but I can still hear the soft press of her steps on the sand as she approaches me. I watch the beams of light dance on the water as Quinn crosses her legs beneath herself to sit down beside me.

She hands me a beer, and I realize that she's managed to sit down without any use of her hands. I remember teasing her for that particular skill in high school.

"Thanks," I mumble. I hadn't thought to bring a beverage over here with me, and once I successfully separated myself from the group there was no way that I was going to willingly enter the folds again.

"You looked like you needed one," Quinn offers.

I can see her small, sympathetic smile out of the corner of my eye.

"You could say that. Are you also not impressed by the traveling musical circus?" I speculate.

Her smile relaxes, and she feigns a sheepish expression.

"I'm trying. I remember how I felt about the Glee kids when we first joined, and how drastically those feelings changed. But these people-"

"Are annoying as fuck," I finish for her.

Quinn laughs and nods in agreement.

"Yeah, and you know there's a problem when Sadie and Rachel have two of the smallest egos of the bunch," she cites.

I can't help but acknowledge the truth in such a statement. Sadie and Rachel are easily two of the most talented people (in their prospective fields) that are working on this project, and yet, amazingly enough, they are modest in comparison to some of the other members of the cast.

"Kurt seems to be enjoying himself," I observe, taking a gander over my shoulder to the scene playing out by the fire. From the many years of friendship with Kurt and Rachel, I would say that there is a very good chance that Kurt is reenacting the Whatever Lola Wants scene from the Damn Yankees with three other men.

"That's because he's in gay man heaven," Quinn conjectures.

She leans back to rest on her elbows, straining the material of her white swimsuit cover-up. It's basically transparent, and even with the lack of direct light I can easily make out the lines of her emerald halter topped two piece.

The cover-up stops inches above her mid-thigh leaving each line of her deliciously toned legs on display. Her skin is sun-kissed, which isn't typical for the average New Yorker. I wonder how often Sadie has forced her to layout on roofs, or how frequently Brittany has convinced her to visit the beaches of the Hamptons or Fire Island.

I shouldn't have had so much to drink, especially after the emotionally charged song I sang earlier.

She sang with me, and as far as I could tell, she put just as much of herself into it as I did. Which means, as far as I am concerned, that she's willing to give me a chance. It means more to me than it probably should, or perhaps the beer is making me emotional.

In any case, I don't want to jeopardize anything due to my inability to keep my eyes focused on appropriate places.

Thankfully, she's engrossed in the soothing rock of the boats and the hushed crash of the waves.

"True. Whatever takes his mind off of Sebastian, I'm down with," I proclaim.

"I thought you weren't worried about it," she recalls, twisting her head towards me.

Kurt seems to be whole-heartedly against mine and Sebastian's work, but I can tell that he's starting to feel something for my male counterpart.

I think about how Rachel feels about me despite everything.

I think about how compelled I feel to please my mother despite everything.

"I wasn't, but I've recently remembered that people are willing to forgive a lot when they feel a connection to someone. Sometimes too much," I respond thoughtfully.

Her eyes flash defensively.

"Are you saying-"

"No, Q, I wasn't talking about us," I stop her.

Her lips instantly spread into a satisfied smile.

"I've graduated to Q now, huh?" she notes playfully.

I hadn't noticed that my old nickname for her had slipped from my lips. The tide rushes up to meet my ankles and I slide my body further away in response. Quinn's eyes close at the sensation of the water, and she doesn't shift to avoid it.

"Well, it's not everyday that I get serenaded," I reference light-heartedly.

"Hold on, I thought that you were close to Rachel Berry..." Quinn jokingly raises a hand.

"Funny. We don't talk everyday given the nature of her work and my hours, and I made sure that I knew how to mute her on Skype before our very first call, anyway," I correct.

"I'm sure she loves that," Quinn mutters sarcastically.

"She's usually too busy singing to notice," I point out with a smirk.

She gives me a look as if to say that she's not surprised before she curves her bottom lip into her mouth.

It's difficult not to stare, especially now that there is a break in our conversation. The wind picks up briefly and toys with her choppy hair. It does nothing to aid me in my predicament.

When she brings her beer to her lips she definitely notices my stare.

"For the record, you were clearly the one serenading me," she asserts with a knowing glimmer in her hazel eyes.

I want to kiss her.

It's so fucking inappropriate.

I was barely able to convince her to give our friendship a go, and my concentration should be on making _that_ work. Not this.

"If I were to, hypothetically, accept your premise, I would be obligated to justify such an action by calling attention to our habitual inability to communicate effectively through traditional verbal exchanges," I detail in an artificially haughty voice.

Quinn chuckles breezily.

"Did they teach you how to talk like that in law school? Quite the departure from Santana "get out of my way afores I ends you" Lopez," she imitates with a mocking bob of her head.

In the most mature fashion, I take a fistful of wet sand and plop it down on her leg just above her knee. She looks down in amused disbelief before brushing it cleanly off.

"Okay, okay. It's _sorta_, in some _tiny_ way, impressive. And you're right. It is a recurring problem of ours. We are the queens of misunderstandings," Quinn concedes.

I find myself wishing that we could sit like this for the rest of the night or at least press pause on life temporarily. I don't know what it is but I feel far more weightless than I have in a very long time.

No one has ever been able to inflame me, or cool me, or bring me to a greater sense of peace than the woman beside me has. I don't think it's wrong of me to want to hold onto that peaceful feeling for a little bit longer.

"I don't know how we manage to say too much and yet leave too much unsaid at the same time," I murmur, more to myself than to her.

She narrows her eyes at me, and I can't tell in this light whether it's in a good way or in a bad way.

"Are you drunk?" she accuses somewhat cynically.

I get it. I'm not always the most open. I'm not surprised that she's skeptical.

"Not especially," I reply honestly.

I'm tipsy, at best, and even then I'm not sure if I can blame the somewhat hazy state of my mind on alcohol; I have more than a sneaking suspicion that Quinn has something to do with it.

I take another drink as if that will somehow counteract my last thought.

"You think at the ripe old age of 26 we'd be able to have a conversation without screaming at each other," Quinn deprecates humorously.

"Isn't that what we're doing now?" I pose.

"Touché," she admits, and I feel her hand skim over mine. "I like it."

Her tone is sweet when she says it, but I can detect a quality to it that it is even huskier than her usual. I tighten my grip on the neck of my bottle.

The impulse to kiss her is only exacerbated by her tone and the barely there touch of her hand.

"Me too," I echo her sentiment, annoyed by my own thick vocalization.

She clears her throat, tearing her eyes from mine to peer out at the sea.

"About the other day..." she begins cautiously.

Immediately, I know what she's referring to. I've played that conversation by the elevator over and over in my head more times than I've cared to say.

I honestly don't need to rehash it. The conversation afforded me some answers that I needed, sure; although it wasn't necessarily the most healthy form for me to receive them..

"You don't have to do that. I get that my work doesn't make me the most appealing candidate for friendship, but if you're willing to give it a chance-" I assure her.

She places her hand firmly on mine to signal that I shouldn't say more.

"No, Santana. Let me talk. You were right to think that I reacted out of fear. But I've spent too much time allowing fear to control my life. Yes, I'm scared of you. I always have been. Actually, that's a lie. I did feel safe with you once we settled into our relationship, but you tore _that_ rug out from under me without warning," she divulges.

"I had to-" I start to defend, but this time she shuts me up with a squeeze of her hand.

"Stop. You did the right thing. You did the right thing for both of us. In my mind, I was living the dream. I got to have you while pleasing everyone else. And maybe I should have paid more attention to how our secret relationship was impacting you, but in a way, I'm grateful that I didn't. While the blow was unexpected, I relish every moment of happiness that I had before that," she confesses.

We both could have done more to see the situation from the other's shoes, certainly. But looking back, I'm grateful that I didn't discover that she couldn't ever see herself being open with me even a moment earlier. What we had, although temporary in nature, was an amazing thing.

"I know what you mean. I'm happy that I didn't come to that realization any sooner."

One of the boats' lights bob and for the briefest of moments can see the full spectrum of color in Quinn's eyes. Hazel is such a cop out word to use to describe them. The dictionary claims that it's a light golden brown color; the color of a hazelnut. But her eyes are more green than golden, and more golden than brown. Even that is a total simplification. Because sometimes, I could swear that gold is the most predominant of the colors. Depending on her mood, clothing, and the lighting, you can seemingly find almost every pigment there.

I've never been anywhere near as artistic as Quinn is, but if there were one solitary thing that I wish I could wax poetic for, it would be Quinn's eyes. I'd be honored to be the one who finally found the words to do them justice.

I'm distinctly aware of how her hand is still covering mine.

"So, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for passing judgment on you the other day, and I'm also sorry that I couldn't be there for you over the years," she apologizes, interrupting my examination of her eyes in the dark.

"Puck should have never-,"

She interrupts me again, this time with a smile.

It's crazy how much power she has over me sometimes.

"This isn't about Puck. You've been through some terrible things; we both have. And believe me when I say that I wish that we didn't have to lose our best friends when our relationship ended," she laments.

She caresses the top of my hand with her thumb, and I swear a vein in my hand spasms under the contact. It's as if my blood remembers her touch, or at least my heart is reminding it that it does.

I think of her admission about being scared of me, and how unbalanced and out of control I feel in her presence. I think of how the simple swipe of her thumb centers me while simultaneously alerting me to every sensory receptor in my hand.

I recall feeling similarly in high school before we sorted out our issues, and how the unbalanced became balanced not long after we established our relationship. Basically, once I stopped being afraid of her and what she meant to me, everything seemed to click.

_Is fear the source of my unhinging now?_

I don't know.

I know I stopped walking by her wall because I felt unstable around her. I know I lashed out at her at the restaurant because I feared what she might think or say.

But I can't say that the feeling is diminished now that I'm gradually making choices that are not motivated by fear. In fact, the feeling seems to only grow more powerful, but it's not as dark of a feeling as it once was.

"Just so you know, I was afraid, too. I don't know; there's just something about you, even after all this time, where I don't feel as together as I normally do," I simplify. God knows it's so much more than that.

Cheering erupts from behind us, but neither of us look away from the other.

"You could have fooled me." I inspect her mouth for some inkling of a smile given her easy-going tone, but I don't find one.

"I suppose that was the point. I don't know how to explain it. I probably sound crazy," I criticize.

She looks at me then, with such affection that I've lost all notion of what we're talking about.

My mind drifts back to a conversation we had senior year in my car. I had thrown some stupid fucking fit over this new guy at work because I was threatened by him. Quinn had acted like I was certifiably insane for ever thinking that

* * *

_"He's an asshole," I mumble._

_"Yeah…he's really not. Not at all. He's sweet actually," she argues, and my jaw tightens._

_"Got it. Well, that certainly explains why you've been batting your eyes at him and flirting with him for weeks," I reply bitterly, watching as my knuckles go white on the steering wheel._

_I left my gloves at work. Don't really care at this point though._

_"Pull over," she orders, and I ignore her. "Santana. Pull. Over," she emphasizes in her not-taking-no-for-an-answer tone, and I sigh heavily as I turn into the nearest parking lot._

_"What? I know how much easier it would be for you with him. Your family would love him. He looks like a fucking movie star. He likes all the same stuff you like." I realize how bitter and pathetic I sound, but I can't seem to stop myself._

_"He's great, but he has this one huge flaw, and it's a total deal breaker," she contends, and my eyebrows rise, putting the car in park before finally twisting my neck to look at her._

_"And what's that?" I ask. Seriously, it's like this guy was created just for her._

_"He isn't you." She smiles at me softly._

_"I watch for you. I always have. I'm constantly waiting for you to enter the room, because I know that once you do, I will feel more alive. I have looked upon this face of yours almost every day for the past thirteen years, and it still takes my breath away. Remember that night at the nightclub when you asked me what my water was? It's you. Loving you is like swimming for a fish, or dancing for Brittany. I belong with you," Quinn confesses, and her eyes never leave mine._

_My breathing slows as she works to assuage my fears._

_I do remember asking her the question as Brittany was dancing. We weren't supposed to be calling attention to ourselves, and there our tall friend was in the middle of a large circle doing just that. Quinn had said that just like you can't put a fish in water and expect it not to swim, you can't put Brittany in a nightclub and expect her not to dance._

_"You don't ever miss, you know, being with guys?" I ask hesitantly, and I watch as her lips twitch. I think she's trying not to laugh._

_I know it's stupid but sometimes I wonder if she ever pictures someone of the opposite gender when she's with me. It's stupid because I can always see how very there she is with me. All I have to do is look at the way she looks at me. The answer is always there. It's a shame that it took me so long to notice it._

_"Are you serious, San? Baby, I'm not missing anything with you. I have everything with you. This isn't about gender for me." She leans over the center console, cradling the side of my neck with her hand._

_"You are the one part of my life that no one has pushed me to go after. You are the one thing that is just for me. You are the one thing that I have done completely for myself. I chose you of my own accord. I am not with you for my parents, or my popularity, or my grades, or my reputation…You are all mine. My choice. My love. My everything." Her hazel pleads with me to believe every word._

_Usually when Quinn says "big" things to me they are by accident. A slip of the tongue, or a hurriedly sent text. Here she is putting my feelings above her own insecurities. The gravity of her feelings for me scare her, just as the gravity of my feelings for her scare me._

_"I love you," I proclaim against her lips as if those three words could even hope to compare with everything that she just said._

_"I love you too, baby." She must be confident that the parking lot is empty, because she doesn't make her usual scan around us before pressing her lips to mine._

_The caress of her lips calms my anxieties but excites my heart. I shift to reach to touch her cheek, but I halt at the sensation of her lips spreading into a smile against mine._

_"What are you cheesing about?" I inquire. Her smile is infectious, even if I have no idea why she's smiling._

_She lifts her thumb, pushing it affectionately into the dimple on my cheek._

_"It's just funny to me to think that you would actually worry about me leaving you for someone else. Sometimes I really worry about your sanity," she muses, and I turn my head to playfully bite down on her thumb._

_"It wasn't that long ago that you chucked my favorite drumsticks across the studio, Q," I remind her, and her smile transforms into a mischievous one._

_She begins to outline my lips with her middle finger._

_"Last month when we were in Victoria's Secret and the saleswoman asked me if I wanted her to measure my bust, you threatened to "bust" her perverted face in," she counters, as she continues with her distracting attentions to my lips. It's almost enough to sidetrack me from responding to her adequately._

_"You didn't see how she was looking at you! Also, there were at least two dozen other people in that store and she beelined it straight for you," I argue, although it is difficult to speak properly now that her finger is running leisurely along my bottom lip._

_I slide my tongue out to meet her finger before dipping my head down to bring the tip into my mouth._

_I watch with great interest as her irises contract, and her breath hitches audibly._

_"And when the clerk at the skate rink offered to help me put on my skates?" Her voice has almost lost its challenging tone, but the girl is definitely trying._

_"Have you seen your legs? I mean c'mon…" I hum against the tip of her finger, sucking lightly as I wait for her retort._

_"I was wearing jeans!" she contends with a shaky husk._

_"You could be wearing a fucking snuggie, and you would still look hot, Q," I explain, gliding my tongue along the length of her finger before taking it completely into my mouth. She tastes faintly of acrylic paint, but I don't care._

_"You would hit on me in a snuggie?" she questions quietly, her chest heaving under my gaze._

_I pause for a moment, reveling in her half lidded eyes before I answer._

_"It's better if we don't test that one, babe."_

_"Enough talking. Take us home," she commands, withdrawing her finger from my mouth, and deliberately placing her hand near the inside of my thigh._

_It's all the encouragement I need._

* * *

"I believe you named it the _pull_ once upon a time," Quinn recollects.

My mouth goes dry.

"You remember that?" I breathe.

"Of course, I do. Who wouldn't remember their first love's first profession of love?" she confirms candidly.

"Hey, I didn't say _love_," I contest.

I said a lot during that first profession of feelings, but although I loved her then, I didn't say the actual word.

"Oh I remember that, too. It took you what, almost two more months to say it?" she teases.

She's right, of course. In fact, I didn't even say it until after she did. In my defense, I thought she knew.

"You were always better at expressing yourself."

"You were just slow," she says as she nudges me with her shoulder.

"Slow to expressing it, maybe. Slow to admitting it to myself, definitely, but to be fair, you broke my little eighth grade heart," I self-deprecate.

"Ugh. Yes, and I've never used the word "lesbo" again," she groans, despite the fact that I was kidding.

It seems so silly now, but it destroyed my eighth grade self to hear Quinn say that she wasn't a "lesbo" and that she would never date a girl. You see, I was madly in love with my best friend. I always had been. After that, I decided that since I couldn't have her, I would destroy her like she destroyed me. Thankfully, after about three years, I grew out of that mentality.

"This doesn't mean we have to hug or anything does it?" I jest.

"Uh, no. Not if you're going to act like an awkward prepubescent boy about it." She lifts her hand from mine in mock offense to gesture about how ridiculous I am. I can faintly see the lines between her eyebrows form.

My arms are beginning to feel uncomfortable so I reach for the hem of my cover-up, and lift my ass off of the sand so I can pull it over my head.

"What are you doing?" Quinn asks in an odd voice.

I fold the garment to place behind my head as I lay back.

"I don't want to get sand all up in my hair," I explain.

"Oh." She swallows, and I'd be blind not to see that her eyes are on my stomach.

I shouldn't enjoy the attention as much as I do. I wish I could see if her eyes are darkening like they used to.

Quinn inhales sharply before tugging her own cover-up off.

Fuck.

I roll to my side to "take a drink", but really it's a maneuver made to avoid the temptation to leer. By the time I roll back over, Quinn is on her back with the white cloth behind her head.

I weave my fingers through my own hair to prevent me from touching hers.

_Ugh._ I _am_ acting like a prepubescent boy.

The stars are amazing above us. The sky appears rounded, almost as if we were in a planetarium dome. It's surreal.

And yet, I'm acutely cognizant of every breath that Quinn takes beside me.

"I really like the short hair, Q," I compliment, cringing internally at my blurting.

I know she's smiling. Don't ask me how, because I'm not looking at her face, and although I've worked incredibly hard to sharpen my senses, I'm still not skilled enough to actually hear her smile.

I've heard it in her voice before, sure. I've felt it against my mouth, definitely. But she's not speaking and we're certainly not kissing, and yet, I know.

"Yeah? Well I feel pretty lukewarm about yours since it's the exact same as it was in high school," she retorts playfully.

"Watch it. I'm not opposed to change. I have some highlights now."

"Oo, living dangerously. Between that and the motorcycle you're a certifiable badass," she japes.

"You liked the bike. Don't even play."

Probably not anywhere near as much as I liked having her on it with me. We didn't speak the entire ride, and I was able to just revel in the feel of her arms around me again. There was no Sebastian there to call me out on various facial expressions I might have made. It was only me, Quinn, and the sunrise.

I did have to be consciously careful of my breathing, however, because sometimes her fingers would splay against my abdomen, and needless to say, it felt good. More than that, it made me yearn for the disappearance of fabric; I wanted her hands on my bare skin desperately.

At least I didn't have to go take care of myself in a friend's bathroom after the ride was over.

"It was kinda fun," she admits.

"We'll do it again sometime," I suggest.

"Was that an order or an invitation?" Just like I knew she was smiling before, I can practically feel her eyebrow rise now.

"Take it however you like, but the other day was the last time that I'll be saying please in awhile," I declare.

"I don't know. I've been able to overcome that particular reservation of yours before," she says with a heavy cocky tone.

My breath catches.

"Wanky, but I really don't think you want to get into a comparison of what we've made each other do in bed," I warn.

I force myself to look away from her all-too-seductive face.

"Cowar-oooh my god!" she screams.

"What the hell is wrong-oh fuck!" Before I can even move my head to see the reason for her outcry the water surges up to my neck, ricocheting to splash onto my face as well.

I jolt upwards, slipping considerably, snatching both of our coverings with my left hand before instinctively capturing Quinn's hand with my right. We sprint together away from the shore in a dripping mess of cursing and laughter.

Every conversation and round of singing cease when we reach the bonfire. They're all staring at us silently as if we are the odd ones of the bunch.

Sadie and Kurt's eyes are very pointedly fixed on Quinn and I's hands. I let go of my ex-girlfriend's hand immediately.

Quinn shrugs, giggling before she finishes the last of her beer.

_Oh shit._

"I think the water stole my beer," I sputter.

Rachel pops up from her seated position on the sand.

"You can't litter the water! Go get it!" she demands.

Quinn drops her bottle into the box of empties and flashes a daring grin in my direction.

"I'm in if you are," Quinn proposes.

She doesn't wait for my answer; she's already off and running towards the shore, her perfect ass illuminated by the flickering fire.

_How could I refuse that?_

I release the garments from my hand before dashing after her.

"I'm not the strongest swimmer," I call from behind her.

"I remember. I won't let you drown," she promises as she reaches the water.

She makes a flawless shallow dive after reaching a certain depth, while I wade in far more cautiously.

Eventually, I reach the area where she's treading water and we both glance around fervently searching for the unintentionally discarded bottle.

We're screwed if the tide has carried it past the boats. There is no way that I'm swimming beyond them, and I sure as hell am not going to let Quinn do so either.

She floats effortlessly, despite the small waves that buoy us up and down.

I myself am engaged in what I'm pretty sure is the most awkward bicycle kick that anyone has ever done. I'm far more flail than finesse, but at least I'm keeping my head above water.

Quinn regards me every so often with amusement while she looks around.

The water is clearer than any lake in Ohio, but the fire is far away and neither the moonlight nor the boats are serving to properly illuminate the water beneath me.

"There aren't any of those giant squids out here right?" I ask for reassurance.

Quinn just snickers at me.

"Shut up. I've seen some of those sea monster shows. That shit is scary," I rationalize.

"I'm sure with your _training_ you'll be fine," she responds satirically.

"Yeah, because Octopus Wrangling 101 is a real thing," I snark back.

Her eyes widen suddenly, and she propels herself forward into a front crawl to swim closer to one of the boats.

Determined to refrain from doing any form of doggy style in front of Quinn, I tilt my uncoordinated bicycle kick to the side and I push the water with my hands towards the shore.

I barely make any progress in her direction.

"Got it!" she shouts in triumph, holding the bottle into the air.

My head threatens to bounce under the water only twice more before she returns to me.

"Yup, real glad that I swam out here and exposed myself to the sharks and sea urchins to help," I greet her bitterly.

"This is your bottle, remember? Regardless, you know I couldn't have retrieved it without your moral support," she lies.

The next wave causes her body to drift until it's almost flush with mine.

Her breaths are slightly labored. Although I'm mindful of the erratic movements of my legs, because I want to avoid kicking her, my eyes are drawn to her lips.

"Screw you." It comes out so breathily that it sounds like more of an invitation than an insult.

She doesn't respond. The water laps against us, and it's the only noise that can be heard aside from the soft roar of the crowd on the beach. I don't know how I feel as her eyes bounce between my eyes and lips. I know that my eyes are doing the same to her.

If she kisses me, I very well might drown.

I'm not sure that I care.

Her chest grazes mine, and I'm very aware of the way her lips part in response.

"So are you and Rach-" she breaks the silence.

Something slithers against my leg, and I spring upwards so forcefully that I almost headbutt Quinn.

"Something just touched me!" I yelp.

"You're being paranoid, I'm sure it was-eeek!" she shrieks.

Obviously the creature thought it'd say hello to Quinn's legs as well.

"I told you!" I taunt as we both make our panicked strokes to shore.

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

I'm faintly mindful of how shaky my balance is as my shoulder bumps against the wall of the corridor. Rachel collides against me with a giggle, and I push her away with a sloppy hand.

She stumbles to the other side of the hallway, making contact with the opposite wall. I don't feel bad, because there's no way that I shoved her that hard.

Sadie is handling herself far better than Rachel and I, as evidenced by her successful entry into her hotel room up ahead.

She shoves her boy toy into her room, but pauses before joining him to bid us good night.

"Sweet dreams, bitches. If you feel like killing each other stay away from sharp objects, but if you feel like fucking, come get me, and I'll show you how to make a dental dam out of one of my condoms. Clint won't mind if we break for a demonstration, would ya Clint?" she asks into the doorway.

I can't see or hear Clint's response, but I've managed to remove myself from the wall to progress further down the corridor.

"Ew, no. Just go enjoy your monkey sex," I implore her with a bat of my hand.

"Don't have to tell me twice." Sadie winks, and the door clicks shut behind her.

"Dental dams?" Rachel repeats, and I hush her with my finger. Rachel's security guy has called it quits for the night, and I really don't want to deal with anyone who wakes up because she only has one volume setting when drunk (very, very loud).

I'm going to kill Sadie for convincing us to try absinthe. That won't be until tomorrow, of course, when I'm in complete control of my faculties once again.

"Please tell me that you know what those are," I urge, leaning against her room door while I wait for her to catch up. I rest my eyes while I wait.

"I have a vaguely clinical idea. Do you use them?" she asks without hesitation.

She makes it to the door, but fumbles through her purse to find the key card.

"No, I don't know anyone who does actually. I think the idea of saran wrapping a vagina before you get to it is unappealing." I giggle, because I'm surprised by my own candor.

Growing impatient, I snatch Rachel's purse roughly from her to retrieve the card myself. It takes me longer to fetch it than I gave her to do so, but I discover it eventually.

I would have never guessed at the beginning of this trip that I'd be spending a night in Rachel Berry's room. But I'm not into voyeurism, so Sadie's room was out of the question, and Kurt had left to head back to the hotel shortly after Sadie and Rachel (along with other members of the cast and crew) had joined us. He had his work to finish, but I have to say that he has missed out. Tonight was more fun than I'll probably ever care to admit.

Sebastian had given Kurt his extra room key on day one as some kind of lewd gesture, but Kurt assured me that just because he used the room doesn't mean that Sebastian would assume that he was getting laid when he got back.

Before I know it, I'm in Rachel's bedroom rifling through the bed stand drawers in a wild search for some sort of food delivery.

Rachel is grumbling at the television as she flips through the channels.

"It's all Italian! I don't understand Italian!" she whines.

I should be annoyed, but I'm laughing instead. I do bring my finger to my lips to signal for her to quiet down. She shuffles over to the bedroom doors, and closes them. Well, she tries anyway, but she brings the wrong one forward first which results in the doors just bumping together. She decides it's good enough, however, and wobbles back to the bed, kicking off her heels in the process.

I don't care to point out that almost-shut doors are going to do nothing to muffle the noise for the occupants of the room on the other side of the bedroom wall.

"Me either, but aren't you playing an Italian student?" I question.

"An American student who visits Italy with her language class. I only have like three lines that are actually in Italian. Oh, I can say I'm pregnant though," Rachel elaborates.

Oh yeah, I remember now. Rachel's playing a high school musical ingenue who discovers that she's pregnant on a school trip.

She releases an annoying whine directed at the TV. With a dramatic sigh I spin away from the drawers to view the television.

"Here, I'll translate. I'm not crying; my nose is running because I have allergies and the green screen reminds me of grass," I imitate a godawful Italian accent.

Rachel cackles, her mood immediately lifted. She jumps onto the bed, almost causing me to flop off of it.

"Why do I feel like maracas would fit into all of these scenes? Is that racist?" Rachel ponders thoughtfully.

The man on the screen has two hands on some poor woman's face. I think they're kissing, but it doesn't look pleasurable.

"Why is he pawing at her face like that?" I wonder out loud.

"I thought you've kissed Puck before," Rachel slurs.

"Puck wasn't _that_ bad. I've kissed worse," I recall.

"I've kissed better," she asserts with a pointed nod.

"Yeah, I know," I say with a little too much bite. Suddenly, food doesn't sound like a good idea anymore.

Despite the cloudy state of my mind, the memory of Rachel and Santana kissing in that curtained room floats up all too easily.

It's more unpleasant than it has ever been. Partially because my dislike for Rachel is fading. Mostly, it's because the image collides with those from the night on the boats.

I was nowhere near as intoxicated then as I am now, but over the past three days I've found myself questioning whether I had imagined the electricity between us. I came dangerously close to kissing her that night, and I'm pretty sure that she came close to kissing me as well. Which is horrible considering that her (possible) girlfriend was only a couple hundred yards away at the time.

The Santana I knew wasn't a cheater. But, I don't know how's she's acted in the area since I've left. Sadie has mentioned a couple of other ex-girlfriends of Santana's, but she didn't mention anything about cheating.

But, the fact is, we didn't kiss. Although, I can't deny that there was tension between us.

On the one hand, it's probably a good thing if Santana is seeing Rachel, because that means we can only develop a friendship. We've never had _just_ a friendship. There's always been something else there. Given that Santana's struggling to come to terms with some things in her life right now, and given that we are just starting to get to know each other again it's probably for the best that we can't complicate our relationship.

On the other hand, it's a rough water to tread because it's _Santana_. I wish I could blame it on how breathtaking she is in the moonlight in her frustratingly tiny black bikini. I wish I could blame it on the rollercoaster of emotions that was that night. I wish I could blame it on the fact that she took my hand for the first time in years, and that she searched the boat for a blanket to cover me with on the ride back from the beach.

But I can't use that night as any sort of excuse because whether she's in a pantsuit, or covered in body paint, or sweating and grumbling while moving all of Kurt's shit it doesn't matter; she's Santana. And I am undeniably attracted to her.

When we're getting along, like we were on the beach, it's all I can do to keep my hands off of her.

But, it's_ fine_.

Because we said we would be _friends_.

Rachel fiddles with the remote until she discovers how to turn off the television.

Oh god, I can tell that she wants to talk.

"You know what I don't get? Sadie's like really really _good_ looking, yeah? But I'm not _bad_ looking. There are literally tons of people who think I'm pretty, but she _always_ goes home with someone when she wants to. I've had my share of illicit affairs, believe me, but I've never seen that girl strikeout as they say," Rachel rambles.

I'd roll my eyes, but it would require far more effort than it's worth.

"Sadie's more forward than you are. She just asks people if they want to fuck and if they say no, she moves right along," I differentiate.

I've never seen Sadie be full out rejected either. Unless the person wasn't single. I find it difficult to believe that Rachel has any difficulties getting people to sleep with her. Yes, her mouth is a turnoff, but she's famous and admittedly very pretty.

"Yes, you're right. She also more indiscriminate than I am, but sometimes I just want sex. It's been almost a _month_," Rachel groans, stuffing her face into one of the pillows.

_A month?_

Something isn't clicking here.

"Wait, what?"

"A _month_. I bet it hasn't been that long for you. Look at you. You had every Italian man at the bar on you tonight and you don't even like men!" she complains.

"There were plenty after you-," I contend.

"But I didn't know what they were saying! And I got all the ones who smelled like pot pourri and cheese," she continues.

I just stare at her for a few moments. I have no idea how long precisely.

"Why are you looking at me like that? Oh my god, I'm not about to get my slap back now am I? Please not the face. Not the face," she begs, covering herself with her hands.

"No, you idiot. I think the absinthe messed me up. I'm really confused, and it's not my business anyway," I refute.

"Confused about what?" she inquires, scooting closer to me now that she realizes that I'm not going to hit her.

"I thought you and Santana were, you know..."

"Santana? I was talking about Sa-die," she patronizingly enunciates.

I sigh heavily because I'm not happy that I have to spell this out.

"I thought you and Santana were together or at the very least messing around, but now you're talking about how you wish could have found a suitable man to mount tonight and I-"

Rachel's face freezes for a second before she interrupts me with enthusiastic (over enthusiastic, in my opinion) laughter.

"Why would you think _that_?" she gets out between exhales.

"I saw you two together in the curtain room at Brittany's party, and you're always all over each other, and there's the whole you slapping me thing," I list off.

"You saw us kissing?!" She slaps her hand over her mouth.

"I was looking for Mercedes; it's not like I stood there and watched!"

"It wasn't what you think, okay? Not that this is any of your business."

"It isn't my business. I know that. I said that already," I reiterate.

"Santana and I have kissed three times ever, and the first time she had to be paid $50 to do it, remember that?"

"Yes, after junior Prom, I remember. At Brittany's party it just looked like-"

"I honestly don't need to hear from you what it _looked_ like, Quinn. Okay? I've been working very _very_ hard to move on from someone who I never had. And your opinion is literally the _last_ opinion that I would ever want on this," Rachel says scathingly.

"Rachel, I didn't-" I desperately wish that I didn't have some green concoction poisoning my veins right now because I want to understand. I know that this is important.

"Didn't what? That's really just it. It's not what you did or didn't do. For you, existing is enough. It didn't matter whether you were in New York or 3,000 miles away. It didn't matter whether she hadn't seen you in seven years or seven minutes."

I flinch. It's not that she's insulting me or even admonishing me. It's just, if there is one thing I can do right now it's_ feel_ and I can feel the agony in her words, and it's on her face, and it just seems like it's everywhere in this room right now.

I've merely started on the road to tolerating this girl, but for some reason her pain is too much.

Maybe I suddenly feel kindred to her, knowing that we both have loved Santana.

Maybe this isn't about Rachel at all. Maybe she's just grabbing my face and forcing me to look directly at the truth without blinking.

Seven years. Seven minutes. Three feet. 3,000 miles.

_It doesn't matter._

"So no, Santana and I aren't messing around nor have we ever. We've never had sex. We've never had a relationship. All because she loves me too much to allow me to be her second choice. I've been working on loving myself that much; loving myself enough to only accept being the first choice. The kiss that you saw was her gift of closure to me," Rachel reveals.

I feel awkward.

I feel as though Rachel just bared her soul to me for some unknown reason.

And I'm on her bed.

And I'm drunk.

And I think she just said that I'm Santana's first choice.

This woman has given me an open handed full on slap across the face, and yet I want her to achieve this love that she speaks of. I'm struck by how little we understand about those we have decided to dislike.

"I want to hug you," I announce abruptly.

She looks up from the comforter that she has been fixated on.

"That's fine. Just don't feel bad for me. There's enough of that going around," she gives me permission.

I hug her, and it's ungraceful because we're both on our stomachs, so it's more like I'm cradling her armpit and her shoulder, and I have to wiggle like a worm to even get to her. But she sniffles, just once, so I hold her tighter.

"I don't feel bad enough for you that I wouldn't do damage to that million dollar face if you ever tried to slap me again," I promise. I'm pretty serious about it despite the fact that I offered it as a way to lighten the mood.

"You didn't appreciate the drama of it?"

I lean back from the pseudo embrace to glare at her, and she squirms backwards.

"No, your dramatics have never been something that I appreciated about you."

"Yes, I distinctly remember you writing various colorful comments on my MySpace videos akin to 'if I were your parents, I would sell you back', and the forever classic 'please get sterilized." She frowns.

I wonder if I would have still posted those things had I known that she would remember every word of it a decade later.

"I was a bitch, but even then, and still now I've always admired that you always go after what you want. Even when you're scared, or even when you doubt yourself, you put your everything into it anyway. You're brave in a way I've always aspired to be." I'm not sure if any of that made sense, but she's smiling instead of frowning now, so it's a start.

_Why do I care if Rachel Berry is smiling or not?_

"You have to be brave when you're an annoying Jewish girl with two gay dads and a very big dream. You had many easier roads that you could have taken, because you're blonde and beautiful, and you're a Fabray. You're extremely brave," she says with admiration.

There's a lump in my throat that I can't dislodge no matter how much I swallow, and she's fuzzy, and I think that I need water, and I either need to eat or throw up.

"I cannot handle this much sappiness right now. Plus I'm starving," I proclaim.

Rachel's eyes brighten, as if an idea just came to her, and she rolls off of the bed hurriedly. Her foot catches on the bedside lamp, however, and there's a shattering sound before we're enveloped in darkness.

I reach out for her into the abyss before I realize that she's no longer on the bed.

"Are you okay?!" I whisper.

Rachel groans from somewhere on the floor. I'm about to slide off the end of the bed to find another light when she speaks coherently.

"Mmhmm, but I think I cut my leg. Remind me again how Sadie was able to persuade us into thinking that absinthe was a good idea?"

That's a very good question. I'm going to have to ask that very question to Sadie tomorrow.

"I don't know, but-"

I halt at the rattle of the front door handle, and I run my thumbs under my eyes in hopes that the action will remove any smeared makeup. I feel the shift of the bed as Rachel crawls back onto it.

Rachel's cheek smacks against mine before she withdraws, and her body goes completely still. It's as if she's worried about Santana berating us about being drunk together, in bed, with a busted lamp on the floor.

_Shit._

Now I'm thinking about that.

I'm sure I look terrible and I'm sure that we both look ridiculous.

The front door closes, and I look over in Rachel's direction, motioning with my head in her direction to get her to say something, before I realize that she can't see me.

The dining room's light switches on.

I can't hear much of anything, and there's only the briefest flicker of motion that I can see through the crack of the bedroom doors.

I nudge Rachel with my forearm to compel her to alert Santana to our presence when there's a knock on the front door.

"What do want? I told you I'd be over there in a second. I just needed to get out of these fucking heels, and have a moment away from your fucking face," Santana snaps at the visitor.

"You're the one who wanted to talk, Deary, and this room is our only option. Kurt's working in mine, and Beverly's asleep in hers. Unless your movie star midget is back already, in which case we can wake Beverly or charm our way into a conference room." I recognize Sebastian's silky smooth voice.

I kinda wanna laugh when he calls Rachel the "movie star midget", but I don't.

"Rachel's not here. Her shoes would be strewn about and there'd be a mess from her hangover prevention recipe in the kitchen. And what do you mean that Kurt is working in your room?" Santana answers.

She thinks we're not here. Whoops. I feel like I should say _something_. But what? _We're in the bedroom, in the dark, careful of the shattered bulb?_

"Yes, he's working on his little fashion project," Sebastian says snobbishly.

"Your condescension would be more believable if you didn't have such an endeared glint in your beady eyes," Santana taunts.

This is weird. I feel weird hearing this. I feel weird in general.

"I'm a sucker for pretty things, just like you, Lopez. Isn't that why you're so obsessed with the Fabray girl?"

_Hey, that's my name._

"Do not compare your creepy fascination with Kurt to Quinn and I," Santana snaps.

I bite down on my lip. She's so protective. I like that about her. And she's right, Santana and I are definitely not like Kurt and Sebastian.

"Oh stand down, Lezpez. Put your self-righteous insecurity away, because frankly, I don't give a fuck, and I'd like to actually get some sleep tonight. So what is it that you want?"

I want to hurt him sometimes. Santana says he's a bit of a weenie, so I might be able to take him.

"I want you to help me convince New Line that it's in their best interests for us to deliver our findings to the police," Santana requests.

_Police? Oh shit. This is about her job. Shit. Why won't Rachel say something? Why won't I say something?_

"Have you lost your mind?"

"He did it, Sebastian. You know it as concretely as I do. And you also know as soon New Line or Talford get wind of it, he's going to be on the next plane back to the U.S. Italy is not going to bother with trying to get the U.S. to extradite the rapist of some lower class Sicilian girl."

Rapist? They're here about a rape?

Rachel inhales audibly beside me, and it hits me. Talford is her co-star. Is he the rapist? Shit. Shit.

We should _not_ be hearing this.

"Whoa, this is bizarre. I can hear you talking just fine, but I can't hear the violins that should be accompanying this fucking sob story you're preaching. We weren't hired to bring that talentless windbag to justice. We were hired to work in New Line's best interests, and no, Lopez, those interests are not supposed to be substituted with yours," Sebastian ridicules.

"Think about it. She's going to press charges. We'll have them fire Talford either way. The story will get out, and this way, New Line can say that they did everything to help in the investigation, rather than just claiming that they terminated him as soon as they heard."

"Yes, yes. Brilliant. We'll pitch them that it's better for their image to have hired a convicted rapist than an accused rapist. Why didn't I think of that?" Sebastian replies sarcastically.

"The police will not be able to convict him without our help. They don't have the fucking resources that we do," Santana contests.

"Precisely, my point. And if we're really lucky, she'll realize that it's a lost cause and forego filing charges completely."

"Do this, and I'll give you everything that I have on you from the Brauer case," Santana bargains.

"You don't even know this chick. Why would you offer up your only leverage against me so easily?"

"You didn't talk to her, Sebastian. I did. She didn't do anything. She's not a professional criminal, she's not some crooked fucking politician. She's just a girl who was excited to be an extra in an American movie."

"It doesn't matter who she is! And it doesn't matter who you are! This is about what we are. You need to learn how to swallow your moral compass, because news flash, Lopez, it only gets deeper from here. You're not the rookie anymore. The longer you work, the more they trust you with. And let me tell you, if you're squeamish over watching this bastard get off with only a light slap on the wrist then you are in for trouble ahead."

"You won't change my mind on this. I'll do it with or without you so you might as well take my Brauer offer while you still can," she offers.

"Your mother is going to see right through this bullshit," Sebastian sneers.

"I don't care," Santana claims.

"If you didn't care you wouldn't still be working this job, you delusional twat," Sebastian insults.

I ball my fists into the comforter to prevent me from barreling out of this room and straight at that smug fucking bastard.

"Take it or leave it, Sebastian."

"Fine, but don't ex-" he agrees.

Rachel belches, and I practically leap on top of her to cover her hand with my mouth.

I hold my own breath.

The pair in the dining room immediately go silent.

Rachel's breath feels hot and moist on my hand, and it makes me cringe.

The bedroom doors swing open, light pouring over us. Santana is wielding a candle holder of all things.

"Mother fuckers," she curses us. She relaxes her position, and flips the candle holder over to rest it back on the dining room table.

"I'll let you handle this." Sebastian dismisses himself, and exits the room.

I realize that my hand is still on Rachel's mouth, as is a good portion of my upper body. I detach myself from her immediately.

Santana wordlessly enters the bedroom, and opens the wardrobe. She hangs her jacket, and proceeds to get changed. I look away to the far wall.

I feel like I'm seven-years-old again and my mother just caught me with my hand in the cookie jar. Although this time Santana isn't down the street to give me cookies anyway.

Rachel's opening and closing her mouth like a fucking catfish.

It drives my anxiety higher so I clip her mouth shut with a finger on her chin.

"I don't know who I'm more pissed at. There's me, who didn't realize that you were here, and then there's the two of you wannabe spy kids, who deliberately failed to alert me to the fact that my private conversation was not so private." She doesn't sound that pissed, and her voice doesn't even sound that cold. I rotate my head to look at her, and she's already changed into her sleep shorts and a blue v-cut cotton t-shirt.

She looks good.

"We're sorry," Rachel squeaks.

I don't even care that she spoke for me.

Santana squints her eyes at the two of us and leans forward.

"Are you two high?" she accuses, obviously analyzing our pupils.

"Absinthe," I answer quietly.

Santana laughs, and I swear to god, it's the best noise in the world.

"Fucking Sadie. And you're in here together because?" she inquires.

"Sadie is having sexual intercourse with Clint," Rachel responds.

Santana nods as if to say "of course she is", before she heads back into the dining area.

"I'm sorry. We didn't know what was happening and then it felt like it was too late to say something," I sputter.

Santana spins back to face us.

"As long as you two can agree that you didn't hear a word of that conversation, and that you will never do anything like this again, then we'll all forget that this ever happened," she offers.

Rachel and I both nod eagerly in agreement. My stomach growls before Santana can turn around again, and the noise is quickly followed by the rumblings of Rachel's stomach. I feel my face contort in embarrassment.

"If I pass out on the couch, are you two going to do real damage to the kitchen? Rachel here lights things on fire sober," she questions.

I know I'm not capable of cooking anything right now. I'm here with two influential people, surely they can procure some food though, right?

"It's a science that I've never mastered nor really understood," Rachel admits.

Santana rubs her neck for a moment, regarding both of us in our drunken, hungry states.

She exhales loudly.

"Fuck. I'll do it...what the hell happened to the lamp?" she tilts her head to view the side of the bed.

Rachel points to me.

I open my mouth in outrage.

"Right, Rach. I'll go get the first aid kit for your dumbass." Santana gestures to Rachel's leg.

"I'm sorry!" Rachel calls at Santana's back.

"Sadie's going to be the sorry one," Santana grumbles.

"Momma's angry," Rachel giggles.

"Oh god. That's wrong on so many levels," I mumble before pressing my face firmly down into the comforter.


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter XVI**

**A/N: If my beta, ckeller48, was a night-heron she would have the best squawk of them all. **

**Thanks for all of the support lately, folks. I'm not injured or out of inspiration or anything like that. Life merely got busy, as it tends to do sometimes. **

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

_Ouch._

My eyelids feel like they're stuck together, but to be honest, I'm not in a hurry to open them anyway. I start with stretching out my limbs instead. That wasn't too bad. Except my head reminds me that it is, in fact, very _very_ bad.

"Good morning, Sunshine. Welcome back to the world of the living." Rachel's voice seems to pierce directly through my temples.

I make very little effort to respond. A noise is all she gets. Not even a full word.

It takes me some unknown period of time before I'm able to open my eyes. Even then, there are at least a dozen more slow blinks to go before I can manage to keep them properly open.

Rachel's pulling her hair into a messy ponytail with an amused smile on her face that's directed right at me.

I realize that I'm in Rachel's bed, and the thing is, I don't remember how I got here. The last thing I remember is that I was sitting with Rachel at the dining room table, forcing water down my throat at the behest of Santana, while we were waiting for her to finish cooking.

"How did I-" I'm speaking but the voice coming out does NOT sound like mine; it sounds more like the crunch of rock on a gravel road.

For once, I'm grateful for Rachel's annoying habit of cutting people off.

"You passed out at the table before we ate, and Santana carried you to bed. There's a smoothie in the fridge for you. It tastes absolutely disgusting, but it _will_ make you feel better," she advises.

"You made me a smoothie?" I croak in disbelief. I clear my throat, because I'm still not pleased with my voice.

I mean, we got along well enough during our absinthe stupor last night, but I don't think we're at the point of doing favors for one another. Thus, I'm suspicious of this smoothie.

"No, but I had mine about a half an hour ago and I already feel less like a corpse," Rachel corrects.

Despite my pounding head, it doesn't take me more than a second to realize that it must have been Santana. If I drink it, it'll be the closest thing that I'll have had of Santana's cooking since the summer before our freshmen year of college. I miss it. My mother did all of the cooking in our family, and although it wasn't terrible, it wasn't exactly flavorful either. My dad battled high cholesterol for most of my childhood, and my mother was very mindful of ensuring that my sister and I kept our "feminine figures". Both her and Coach Sylvester had an uncanny ability to recognize even the slightest fluctuation in weight.

Santana's cooking was different than anything I'd ever tasted, probably because she learned how to do it completely on her own. With her father out of her life completely, and her mother's persistent absence, it was much like we were playing house. She was no expert chef, but it was always so _good_, and the meals she prepared were one of the many things that made her and that big empty house feel like home.

I think my mother might have known something about the nature of Santana and I's relationship, just as I think there's a very good chance that she knew about my lost pregnancy. Maybe it is wishful thinking, but I want to believe that she did little to interfere with my developing relationship with Santana out of more than her extreme distaste for making waves with my father; I want to believe that she allowed all of the sleepovers, and all of my time spent at Santana's house because she wanted more happiness for me than she ever allowed for herself. But, we, of course, didn't talk about those things in our house.

I think that's part of what intrigued me about the scrawny raven haired girl that I met at preschool in the first place. Speech in my family was always so well controlled, but Santana spoke more than any child I had ever met. It bothered me in the beginning because she was so different. I think I swiped the inflatable guitar from her in an effort to shut her up.

I remember the first time I met Santana's mother. It was at Santana's birthday party in kindergarten. She had a warmth about her that I had never found in my own mom, and she was powerful and outspoken. I had viewed Santana as an incredibly independent child (although I didn't understand the word "independent" yet), but she clung to her mother more than any of the other kids did to theirs, almost as if she was afraid that Mrs. Lopez would disappear at any second.

Looking back, it's a heartbreaking thought.

I groggily swing one of my legs over the side of the bed, recognizing for the first time that I'm still in my clothing from the night before.

_Oh god._

I acted like an idiot last night. A drunk idiot at that. My ex-girlfriend had to _carry_ me to bed (a bed that Rachel probably shared with me). I cringe at how unattractive I must have seemed to Santana last night. Santana with her perfectly pressed suit, smudgeless makeup, and apparent reluctance to change me out of my dress and into sleep clothes.

_Ugh._

Not that I would expect her to change me. It was more than kind enough of her to take me to bed and to make a smoothie for me. I'm not sure what I would have done in her position if she had been the intoxicated one. I would probably tell myself that we are friends and that she'd be far more comfortable out of her dress, but she's still my ex. My extremely sexy ex.

I didn't even plan on drinking much last night, because I wanted to be able to enjoy the rest of my time here. I didn't want to be cursed with a hangover during one of my last days in Italy. But Sadie was persuasive, and gave me this curse laden speech about how life is about new experiences, and how I needed to just let go every once in awhile.

Historically, I've always been more of a slapper than a kicker, but I'd be happy to gift Sadie with the "new experience" of having my foot in her ass.

I grip the back of one of the dining room chairs as I reach it, willing the powerful wave of nausea that hits me to go away. My eyes focus briefly on the candle stick holder, and my thoughts immediately travel to the conversation between Sebastian and Santana. The conversation we were never supposed to hear.

"I'm sorry about your friend," I offer weakly to Rachel.

My thoughts are with the girl who was attacked, more than anyone, but I also can't imagine how Rachel feels knowing what her friend and co-star did.

She pauses mid-way into her reach for her purse, and a non-alcohol related strain sweeps over her features.

"We promised Santana that we'd act like that conversation never happened, and as far as I'm concerned, it didn't. But if I were to hypothetically address this conversation that never happened, I would only say that I'm wrong about people sometimes, and normally, that's not the worst thing, because usually I'd prefer to believe the best in other people and be disappointed than make assumptions about other people which I would never want to be made about me. This is one of the few times in my life where I have regretted having that attitude. But I don't need sympathy from you or from anyone else. I was wrong about him, but I _know_ that I'm not wrong about Santana, and I have faith that she will do the right thing about this situation that we never spoke about because as far as we're concerned it doesn't exist," Rachel responds in her usual long-winded manner.

"I think I caught like...half of that," I confess. My mind is not in the suitable place for deciphering Rachel's rambling, although I think I understand the gist of it.

"That's okay, we didn't talk about this, anyway. After you're done with your smoothie will you go over to Sadie's room and make sure that she's up and around? She has to be on set in an hour and a half," Rachel requests.

Having found my way into the kitchen area, I lean my head against the cool surface of the freezer.

I can barely remain standing without throwing up, I definitely do not want to make the trek all the way down the hallway to play Sadie's babysitter.

"Don't wanna," I mumble.

"Please? If you don't I'm going to insist that we make friendship bracelets together later to commemorate our new relationship," Rachel threatens playfully.

I rotate my head so that my cheek is now resting on the freezer door, in order to give her a proper glare.

"Or lanyards, we could make lanyards?" she suggests with a goading smile.

"Friendship lanyards? Are you fucking kidding me?" I groan.

"What do you think?" she challenges. _Oh god, she's serious._

"Okay, I'll go," I cave.

"Good," she says with a boastful grin, before she leaves me alone in the hotel room.

* * *

I'll admit, albeit reluctantly, that Rachel was right about the smoothie. It took me a few tries to swallow without my stomach contents rushing upwards, but I do feel remarkably better. Better enough to walk to Sadie's room at least.

My own knocking causes my head to throb, but I'm sure it would have been much worse without the hangover concoction. By my fourth round of knocking, I basically decide that Sadie must have left for the day already. I have my own key to Sadie's room, but I still really don't want to risk walking in on any possible morning sex activities. Backing away, I resolve to find Kurt to figure out what we're going to do today, when a freshly showered Sadie swings the door open. She gestures me inside, and I follow if only because I realize that I need a glass of water ASAP.

Without asking, I head into the bathroom to fill one of the plastic cups by the sink. I down three of them, before I carry a full cup back into the bedroom. Sadie is still clothed only in her towel, and she's rifling through one of her dresser drawers.

"You look like shit, Fabray. Let me guess, ya Lesbytarians tried to give a romp in the sandbox the good ol' confused college girl try, but you both moaned the same name before either of you could cream in your jumpers," Sadie jokes, unabashedly dropping her towel once she successfully fishes her bra out of the drawer.

"You're disgusting," I grimace.

The thought of having sex with Rachel makes my skin crawl.

"Oh c'mon, it's funny. It's not like I use the image of the two of you simultaneously moaning Santana's name as spank bank material...although _my_ name is a whole other story," Sadie teases with a wink.

"Okay, stop. Thanks to you, I already feel like throwing up. I'm only here because Rachel threatened me with friendship bracelets, but you're obviously awake so I'm going to just-"

The movement out of the corner of my eye halts my speech. We're not alone in the bedroom. Clint is lying face up on the bed and the sheet is only partially covering his nudity.

_Oh my god._

My neck audibly cracks when I jerk it to look away from the naked man's body on the bed.

"Don't have a conniption. He's knocked the fuck out. See?" Clad in a bra and sweatpants, Sadie walks over to the bed to forcefully push her middlemost three fingers into the chest of the sleeping man. His body rocks back and forth at her touch but he doesn't wake.

"Great._ His_ eyes may be securely closed, but mine just saw all of his junk," I scowl at her.

"Put your fake gold star away, Quinnie. I know that wasn't your first eyeful of man meat," Sadie taunts.

My face contorts in revulsion.

"Even before I realized I was gay, I wasn't fond of the male anatomy," I assert.

I used to believe that a certain amount of interaction with a man's penis was a natural evil of dating. I was always confused by the enthusiasm of my straight female peers. Looking back, it's pretty much laughable how obvious my gayness was.

"It has its uses, although this one was a disappointment; he passed out before our second round was even over." Sadie frowns.

The poor guy. He's probably entirely depleted. Hopefully, he doesn't have much filming to participate in today.

"Maybe next time you shouldn't feed your fuck buddies absinthe if you're looking to have sex all night," I suggest.

"I wasn't looking to go _all_ night. I would've been satisfied with two hours or so. I require sleep, you know. Not beauty sleep, because we both know that I have that on lock, but I have to keep my bitchiness somewhat in check while I'm working," she clarifies, as she tugs a t-shirt over her head.

"If there only were a remedy for your nastiness. I'm going to go check in with Kurt, but don't think I won't get you back for last night," I warn her.

I drain the last of my cup of water, tossing it into the small bedroom garbage before I head for the door.

"What are you going to do? Force me to go to church? And you had fun. You'll get over the after effects," she proclaims from behind me.

I hesitate by the door. If I found Sadie like this, there's no telling how I may find Kurt and Sebastian.

"What if they are-" I twist around to face her with an apprehensive expression.

"Kurt texted me earlier this morning. Sebastian was gone before he woke up. Pity that Clint's penis is probably the only one you'll see today." She laughs at her own joke, but I don't join her.

"You don't know how much I wish that I had punched you instead of pushed you at Prom." I flash her a fake smile.

"You don't know how much I wish that I had recorded you and Rachel ranking the asses of the Nude Directions last night," she shoots back.

My god, I was a mess last night.

I think it's time for me to leave before Sadie can embarrass me with any more stories from the night before. I'm grateful that there isn't video evidence, but I do know that Rachel took note of our list in her phone. I don't remember what our final rankings looked like, and I'm tempted to ask her about it sometime in the future. Santana was an easy number one at least, I remember that much. It bothers me a little less that we agreed on that now that I know that her and Rachel are not a thing.

"Bye, Sadie," I say in a phony sing-song voice.

There's a hesitancy on her face that causes me pause.

"One more thing before you take off, Blondie. I'm not sure how much you remember of what you said last night or how much you _want_ to remember, but I'm going to get real here with you for a minute. I didn't want to get into it with everyone else there at the bar, but you did get all weird there for a bit about how you think you love abnormally or some dumb shit like that," Sadie reminds me.

I vaguely remember my intoxicated self getting a little teary eyed at the bar. _Ugh. Great._

"We really don't have to talk about this. I was drunk. It wasn't anything," I rattle off hastily.

Her knowing smirk tells me that I'm not getting off that easily.

"I know that I've been all up on you with these heart to hearts lately, but you're my girl now whether you like it or not. I don't want you to be dwelling on some flaw that you think you may have about the way you love. Everyone loves differently, and everyone falls in love differently, and that's pretty fucking cool in my opinion," Sadie professes.

I sigh because my head is swimming with last night's alcohol, and there's a naked man a few yards away, and talking about my deep drunken thoughts is about the last thing I feel like doing right now.

"Don't you have to be on set soon? We can have this discussion later if you really feel it's necessary," I attempt to compromise.

Sadie closes her eyes, and shakes her head.

"I'll make it. I don't need you or Berry to babysit me, I promise. I was adopted, did I ever tell you that? I don't talk about it much, because I honestly don't think about it very often at all. They're, very simply, my parents. When they would come to school shit, everyone assumed that they were my grandparents, but they were just two people who didn't find their person until late in life. By the time they found one another, my mom was past babymaking age, so they plucked me from the ginger orphanage. It didn't matter that they were ancient; they had a love that I'll always aspire to have. Actually fuck that, that love still exists, my mom passed almost two years ago, and dad still talks about her everyday," Sadie reveals in a thick tone.

My heart aches for her and her loss. She's rarely spoken to me about her parents, but it's readily apparent, as she stands in front of me now, how much they mean to her,

"I'm so sorry about your mom, honey." It's such a shit thing to say, really. It aggravates me that there aren't better words to offer someone after such a devastating loss, despite how long the English language has been around.

"I miss her, of course I do. I used to hate the way that people would sneer at them as if they should be ashamed for having a child so late in life. They shared a great gift with me, and that's why I love the way I do. For me, it's kinda like shopping for shoes on the internet. I find a pair that I think could be the real deal, and I'll have this tentative plan for how they'll fit into my life; which outfits I'll wear them with, and what events I'll wear them for, etc. But sometimes when the shoes come they're not what I expected, or they don't fit my feet, or they're more pain to walk in than they're worth. I try to make them work, depending on how much I wanted them in the first place, but I don't cling too long to pairs that don't; I send them back. Yeah, I'll be disappointed for a while, but I've always known how to move on, because for me, I'd rather find something like my parents had rather than wasting my time on something that wasn't so great for me in the first place. On rare occasion, I see a pair that could be really _really_ good for me, but they just aren't in season yet. So many people are in such a rush to find their idea of true love, but I'm okay with biding my time, because I know that it's worth it."

I smile at her first mention of shoes. In high school, I was suspicious of Sadie's intentions, once Santana and I started dating. It was difficult for me to believe that Sadie could be "just friends" with her ex-girlfriend. But it makes sense now. She gave her relationship with Santana her best effort, she took the time that she need to away from Santana in order to get over her, and then she was ready to embrace the role that Santana filled in her life.

I'm endlessly envious of that ability.

"You would compare finding love to shoe shopping," I scoff good-naturedly.

"It's good, right? I can do it with pretty much anyone. Like Rachel, she'd saw her own heel off to make a shoe fit Grimm Fairy Tale style. When that girl gets her heart set, she falls hard, and she's willing to forgive many a thing to make it work. You practically have to drag her away kicking and screaming to get her to let go. Puck falls in love with just one aspect of a pair; the coloring, the heel, or the shoestrings. He becomes infatuated with someone based on how Jewish they are, or how their voice sounds with his guitar, or how they refuse to give him the time of day," Sadie proves her point.

I'm torn between chuckling and astonishment and just how spot on she seems to be.

"I get it. You don't need to make anymore shoe analogies," I concede with a wave of my hand.

"I'll stay away from the shoes, but you see how everyone is different? Mercedes doesn't even truly _fall_ in love, she repels like she's coming down the side of a mountain. She's very conscious of what she's doing. She takes her time to make sure that it's the right person, and she allows herself to descend bit by bit. Kurt has a checklist of qualities that he prays his little queer heart out for a man to one day meet, but it's the dumbest fucking shit, because he's the most likely to fall for someone unexpectedly. And Brittany, well she just _loves_. She falls in love in so many different ways and for so many different reasons. Unlike most people, she never falls out of love either. It merely changes or evolves into something different," Sadie finishes.

I can't imagine Mercedes repelling down a mountain. I'm sure if I suggested an activity like that she would tell me that it was white people nonsense or some version of "oh hell to the no". But she_ is_ very careful about who she lets into her heart. Surprisingly, everything Sadie is saying makes sense. As interesting as it is, I don't know why she's going to all of this effort.

"I think I'm too hungover to comprehend this love guru that you've suddenly transformed into."

The smile she gives me in response doesn't quite reach her eyes.

"People underestimate me because of the mouth I have on me, but I know some things about things." She bounces her shoulders in a gesture of mock confidence.

"It's very perceptive of you. Are you trying to say that I can't love abnormally because everyone does?" I summarize.

"Close enough." She tilts her head to the side, pursing her lips.

There's one person that she's noticeably left out of all of her analyzing. I do want to know her take on Santana, but I'm not sure my pride will allow me to ask.

_Oh fuck it._

"And Santana? How do you characterize her?" I swallow my pride.

Sadie rewards me with a genuine smile, and she takes a breath before answering.

"For as long as I've known Santana, she's never been lookin' to give her heart away. She doesn't date much at all. She has her sexual flings and her friends. But her friendships are one of the most special things about her; she doesn't do friendship like normal people do. She loves her friends so hard and so deep that she does everything for them because of it. Each of her close friendships are intimate. While the way she does friendship is awesome, but it's also been the source of a lot of grief for the girl. It's not something she does consciously, but because of the way she loves, the lines often get blurred. Think about it; Brittany, you, me, Rachel...even the first girl she dated after you; she was Santana's best friend at Columbia," Sadie illustrates.

My mouth feels the driest that it's felt since I first woke up this morning. I don't want to be lumped in with a pack of women or even part of a pattern when it comes to Santana.

"So I was just another friendship turned complicated?" I pose resentfully.

Sadie's nostrils flare on her inhale, before she regards me with a look of pure incredulity.

"No. Friendship is the only intimacy that Santana welcomes into her life. Maybe you're the reason for it, or maybe it's her mommy and daddy issues, who knows? But you're not "just another" of anything when it comes to her," Sadie distinguishes.

It doesn't negate or slow the growth of this new weed that she's planted in my mind.

Sadie seemingly picks up on the fact that I have nothing else to say.

"Maybe if my parents had met as early in life as the two of you did, the same thing would have happened to them," she muses quietly as she opens the door for me.

I'm not of the mind to absorb such a heavy thought, and I resent myself for bringing this conversation to the subject of Santana in the first place. I force a smile to tell her goodbye and I'm honestly relieved when her door clicks shut behind me.

* * *

**Santana's POV**

"I don't want to leave," Kurt whines from ahead of where Quinn and I are walking.

_I don't either._

Now that my work is relatively finished, and executed in a manner that didn't leave my skin crawling, I've really enjoyed this morning and afternoon that I've been able to spend exploring the streets of Italy with my friends (and Sebastian).

It's been sunny all day, but the heat hasn't been unbearable. Although Sadie and Kurt have forced us to stop every hour or so to reapply sunscreen to their porcelain skin. I may have cracked a couple jokes, but I really didn't mind. It gave me time to just stand still with her.

Quinn's outfit, by far, stands out the least here. Kurt looks like he's trying too hard, Sebastian and Sadie couldn't care less about blending in, and I'm just grateful to be out of my suit. Quinn's wearing this flattering knee-length cream and brown/gold dress that she purchased here earlier in the week. Her small waist is accentuated, and she's showing more cleavage than her dresses ordinarily do. Needless to say, while her outfit may be Italy appropriate, she herself definitely stands out. Every time I've accidentally brushed against the material of her dress today, I've thought about how it is almost as soft as her skin is.

But it's not really my fault that my thoughts go to such places. I've had hours of her smile, and her melodic laughter, and the way her lip curves when she's trying her best to look annoyed rather than amused. I've listened to the countless details and historical context that she was able to provide as we walked through as much of the art museum as Sadie could stand. I, however, couldn't even bring myself to feign disinterest.

While walking through the public gardens, and the streets of the city we talked, and not small talk or brief glimpses into each other's past; we really, _really_ talked. She told me stories from her undergrad at Yale, and the various ridiculous things that her sorority forced her into doing. I learned about the shows that she had to put on for her M.F.A. and she made me laugh with her imitations of her peers during student reviews. She asked me about law school and what led me to apply. We joked about my mom and what living with her again was like.

We've been catching up like old friends instead of ex-lovers. Things feel almost easy between us today. It feels good enough that I'm willing to ignore every impulse I have to hold her hand. I'm 26-years-old, I shouldn't want to hold someone's hand as badly as I do hers.

Is it possible to be infatuated with how someone structures her sentences, her tone, her every inflection?

I want to keep talking to her and I don't want things to get weird between us, so I ignore the insistent spreading of warmth inside of me every time her face lights up in wonder, or excitement, or curiosity.

There's no malice to be found when I tease her about her absinthe induced behavior. She's already apologized to me multiple times, as well as thanked me for the smoothie and for taking her to bed.

I don't tell her about the embarrassing internal debate that I had about whether I should change her into more comfortable clothes. I don't tell her about how I couldn't get mad that she was listening to my private conversation with Rachel, because of how fucking adorable the expression on her face and the flush of her cheeks were when I swung open the bedroom doors. I don't tell her that although I hate the smell of black licorice, I didn't mind the trace of it on her breath when I carried her to bed. I don't tell her how good it felt to have her in my arms again, and how guilty I felt for having that thought in the first place when she was clearly passed out.

Instead, I keep our conversations platonic, although admittedly I'm not sure how to speak to her without at least a mild flirtation. She doesn't seem to mind. She gives it as good as she gets.

"I don't want your pretty ass to leave either, Sugar, but we only have a day left of filming here anyway," Sadie responds to Kurt as we head in the direction of our planned meeting place with our driver.

There is more and more distance building between Quinn and I, and the group of three in front of us. The slowing of my steps is not conscious on my part, but when I notice it, I'm far more interested in my observation that Quinn's strides have slowed as well.

"But my roommate won't be coming back to me. You're loud and dirty, but the apartment is empty without you," Kurt laments.

Kurt and Sadie bitch at each other constantly, but it's apparent to anyone who bothers to look that they love each other like the sister and brother that they never had.

"If you're feeling lonely, Hummel, you're welcome to stay at my place," Sebastian propositions.

My eye roll is simultaneous with Quinn's. We share a smile because of it.

"Maybe you should switch up your strategy a little, Sabastard. You're worse than the ass grabbers that we've encountered here," Sadie advised.

In truth, we've only had two men actually reach for asses. Sadie's was grabbed when she was mid-conversation with a jewelry vendor, and she impulsively whacked him across the face with her clutch in response. I was so proud.

The second one reached for Quinn. Quinn and I were a few yards away from the rest of the group when a guy approached her, speaking only in Italian. Unsure of what he was saying, Quinn smiled in confusion, and he went straight for her butt.

"Quinn provided more of an invitation than Kurt did," I argue, and Quinn pushes my shoulder playfully.

I'm certainly not arguing that a smile is an invitation for an ass groping, because, of course, I don't think that. I've just been enjoying giving Quinn a hard time today.

"He was talking to me! It's polite," she contends.

"He was complimenting your ass," I scoff.

"Well I didn't know that at the time," she murmurs with a wiggle of her head. It's too cute for words.

"I, for one, enjoyed hearing Santana go off in Italian rather than Spanglish, for once," Kurt says, looking back at us from over his shoulder.

I can't pretend that I haven't noticed the looks from Kurt and Sadie all day. I wish I could say that neither of them are stupid enough to try and talk to me later about whatever it is they think they've been seeing.

"Obviously Quinn's English wasn't doing the trick." I smile as I say it, remembering the insults that spewed from my flustered ex-girlfriend's mouth.

"I thought _fuck you, asshole_ was universal," Quinn kids.

"It should be, but your ass does look great today," Sadie compliments without even looking back at us.

It's not quite jealousy that churns my stomach. It's resentment. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to voice opinions like that to Quinn without it meaning more. In such a short period of time, Quinn and Sadie have developed a type of friendship that I'll never have with Quinn.

But I do agree with Sadie. I definitely, definitely do.

"Pervert," Quinn chastises in jest.

"I'm just not afraid to compliment assets that I wasn't particularly endowed with." Sadie shrugs her slim shoulders.

"Your butt has a great shape to it; it's just Rachel Berry handful size," Kurt asserts.

The image is immediately there and I can't get rid of it. Once Quinn begins to laugh, I break as well.

"Wanky," I mock.

Sadie glances back at me, and there's a flash of something there that I haven't seen from her in a long time. Typical Sadie would make some crude joke, or would claim that Rachel couldn't begin to handle her ass. But, she doesn't look amused. She twists her head forward again before I can see anything else.

"You successfully cockblocked my last attempt at wanky activities," Sadie reminds me her voice peculiarly even.

Despite the fact that I know that she's purposefully trying to divert my attention, I can't help but laugh. Since I implemented my little prank, Sadie had yet to acknowledge it. I had wondered if she hadn't spent much time in her hotel room recently. I'm thrilled to know that it, indeed, had the intended impact.

"What did she do?" Kurt inquires.

"Do you remember that guy that went to NYADA with Rachel who was obsessed with me for like two years?" Sadie introduces.

The guy reminded me of Jacob Israel from high school. Only his hair was this greyish blonde color rather than red, and he wore glasses that changed tint based on whatever lighting he was in. When we all came out to celebrate one of Rachel's many auditions, he zeroed right in on Sadie. He used to pester Rachel with questions about her at every opportunity, and he even showed up to a couple of Sadie's shows in NYC. He always sent her strange plants instead of flowers (which she promptly killed of course).

"Ew, yes. He was _creepy_," Kurt emphasizes.

By the thoroughly entertained expression on Quinn's face she, unlike Kurt, must have known about my revenge before this conversation.

"Well this bitch put pictures of him all over my hotel room. With my sex toys, by my condom drawer, in my lingerie drawer, even on the fucking ceiling above the bed," Sadie details with disgust.

Quinn mouths a "well done" at me. It almost feels as though we are sitting in the back of Glee Club once again, bantering back and forth about our unlikely friends.

"That's what you get for filling our friends full of absinthe and then dropping them off for me to babysit," I tell her.

Although, in truth, I really hadn't minded much.

"I'd be grateful if someone hand delivered two hot women into my bed," Sadie disputes.

I don't know which thought I'd like to avoid more; the thought of Sadie in bed with Rachel and Quinn, or the thought of me in bed with both of them.

"I've had nightmares like that," Kurt informs us.

I want to laugh, but if I did it wouldn't be because of Kurt's meaning.

We enter the long archway of the city's clock tower, and of the sounds of our steps change due to the difference in acoustics. It's an unwelcome reminder that we're headed back to the real world.

Sadie reaches the end of the archway first, followed immediately by Sebastian who looks around in search of our driver.

I lean against the wall, propping one of my feet against the bottom of it. I'm in no hurry to leave. Quinn shuffles in next to me, I would guess as a move to avoid the foot traffic.

"Where is this asshole?" Sebastian grumbles, ever impatient.

"I'm sure he's on his way. Don't get your man-thong in a twist," Sadie snaps back.

I watch with disinterest as Sadie is approached by a scruffy, albeit, incredibly attractive man just outside of the archway, and as Sebastian turns around to complain more to Kurt.

Quinn's foot slips out of her flat somehow, and she places the palm of her hand on my shoulder while she reaches down to slide her shoe back on. She chews on the part of her cheek nearest to the corner of her mouth, before her eyes flit up to mine almost in alarm.

It's as if she realized how natural it was for her to lean on me without warning. It's a simple thing that most friends do without asking, but she smiles in embarrassment anyway.

Her hand slides down my shoulder and arm before she allows it to fall. I think about how grateful I am that today isn't over yet. Maybe whatever stillness that has fallen over the two of us will continue for the duration of our flight back to the states. I wonder when I'll see her again after we land. I'm sure it won't be too long given our common circle of friends, but I've been spoiled by seeing her so much on this trip, in any case.

_Spoiled. Ha._

It's a sweet torture really, to have moments like this. Moments where Kurt and Sebastian are engrossed in their own conversation while Sadie is seemingly planning her last sexual rendezvous in Italy with some stranger. Moments where Quinn and I stand in comfortable silence and I search for any changes that time may or may not have made to her face. I have yet to find anything concrete.

Perhaps she shapes her eyebrows slightly differently, and maybe her eyelashes are even longer than I remember. _Oh wait_, there's a tiny scar just below her left ear on the edge of her jaw that wasn't there in high school.

"What's this from?" I ask, boldly brushing the skin there with the side of my forefinger.

I'm aware of how the hand by her side lifts briefly, as if she's contemplating covering my hand with hers. I drop my hand as she drops hers.

"Oh that? Would you believe me if I told you it's from a welding accident?" she questions.

I laugh for what seems like the millionth time today.

"You're kidding."

Her smile is an inconceivable mixture of pride and bashfulness. I don't know how she does it.

"Nope. My helmet was bumped, a spark escaped under it, and that's my war wound to show for it. I was able to try out a lot different fields while I was at the Institute. I'm a pretty good welder these days, actually," she asserts.

I've never spent much time contemplating metal-working, but I have a vague idea of what the helmet and clothing look like. Imagining Quinn in that outfit with the torch thingy or whatever it is in hand is just...

"That's hot," I unintentionally say out loud.

Her cheeks grow pink, and I describe it that way, because it's clearly not a blush. I know that because of the arch of her left eyebrow, and the dilation of her pupils.

"Says the girl who is fluent in how many languages now?" If I didn't know that it wasn't a blush before, the husk of her tone distinctly relays that fact.

"Only three. I'm conversational in a small handful of others, but it's a requirement of the job. Can't you still speak French?" I answer modestly, and I'm pleasantly surprised by how normal my voice sounds.

"I can. I took two more years of French classes at Yale, but that doesn't really compare," she contests.

I took Spanish in high school mainly because I wanted an easy grade amongst all of my AP courses and activities. In truth, while I had a great handle on vocabulary going into it, I had to basically start from the beginning grammar wise.

Quinn, on the other hand, chose French, and she was absolutely enamored by it. As for me, Quinn's voice was forever a weakness of mine, and I could barely function when that voice would speak French to me.

"Don't tell that to my 17-year-old self."

I take a half step away from the wall, and I'm not sure what exactly compels me to do so. I wasn't positioned between her and it, but I feel as though I need as much air in my immediate vicinity as I can manage. With her looking at me in the way she is, I'm afraid she'll notice something irregular about my breathing.

"You just liked listening to me talk," she accuses.

"I still do," I admit.

Her breath hitches audibly, and her following exhale is obviously calculated on her part. It's not as obvious as the tension around us, however. To me, it's more evident than the moisture in the air, and more pressing than the hurried voices of the tourists behind us.

There's nothing shy in her gaze. These aren't the eyes of a teenage girl who is insecure and unsure of herself. Even at the peak of her popularity and her reign at McKinley her self-confidence only ran so deep.

But this isn't surface level self-assurance. It runs much deeper than that; it's who she really is now.

It's indescribably sexy, and equally dangerous.

"Driver dude is here!" Sadie announces.

We're not snapped out of whatever this is immediately; our eyes linger on one another's until Quinn nods in the direction of the entrance.

Before we can make much progress our driver appears at the opening, waving his arms frantically, a wrapped pastry in one hand.

"No no no no. You must not leave. Stop. Stop," our driver orders and Quinn glances at me in confusion.

"Leave where, Old Man?" Sebastian challenges, although he has halted his strides as well.

"The arch. You cannot leave it until you four kiss," he explains in his thick accent.

"The four of us? You're mad," I chime in.

I don't know what game this guy is playing, but he doesn't appear to be joking. Sadie shoots Kurt a perplexed expression.

"No no. You two kiss. You two kiss." He points with two separated fingers to Quinn and I, and then over to Kurt and Sebastian.

"Why would we do that?" Quinn questions from beside me.

The man's chest puffs purposefully in his preparation to speak.

"When this tower was reconstructed in the 17th century, they say there was an exceptionally diligent builder. He came before the sun each day, and would not retire until the first squawk of the night-heron. His new wife missed him dearly and begged him to keep to the labor the hours of the other men, but he refused. One night they fought until the builder took his leave for work. When the wife saw that he had forgotten his daily rations, she was overcome by remorse, and came to the tower to deliver him his food and drink. She stood next to him, but he would not offer her his gaze. She called his name three times before he finally met her eyes. The wife asked her builder husband for a kiss, but he denied her. When he returned home that night with an apology on his lips, his wife was not there. A young boy found her hair covering on the rocks by the sea. The townspeople whispered about the wife's fondness for watching the water from the seaside cliffs, but no one knows for sure what happened to the young bride. A tragic accident, they called it. After mourning, the builder searched and searched for another wife, but he never found one that he deemed acceptable. He was kind of face, and strong bodied with enough money to properly feed a family, but love was never to be his again. After his passing, it's known that there's a curse that befalls anyone whose eyes lock under this archway as the builder's did. Without a kiss, those passing through will spend the rest of their lives as loveless as the builder's. They say that hundreds of eyes can be found etched into the stone around where you stand now," he recites.

I roll my eyes over to the square-bricks of stone. I pretend to seek out these purported eyes, but in reality, I want to prevent myself from making eye contact with anyone else.

It's dumb, I know. But even the smartest of people are superstitious sometimes.

"Sounds reasonable enough," Sebastian comments.

"Bullshit. You just want to make out with Kurt," I sneer.

There's no way that Sebastian truly believes that he'll foil any chances of a future love life if he steps out from the archway without kissing Kurt. He's a man who operates on fact and tangibility.

"If you're so anti-superstition, Lopez, then why are you staring at the stone like that? Admit it, you're afraid our eyes will meet and you'll have to tongue me to avoid dying alone," Sebastian counters.

I was raised around some intense Catholicism, and despite all of my education and world experience, it is still difficult for me to blatantly spit in the face of something like this. It's like an itch that I feel obligated to scratch even if I know that it won't make any real difference.

"I would rather die alone," I agree with that portion of his accusation. There are very few things more repulsive to me in the world than the idea of kissing Sebastian is. Sex with Sebastian would be one of them.

"Your loss. So what do you say, Handsome? Save my heart from a life without love?" Sebastian proposes cheesily. He really does remind me of a gay Disney prince sometimes.

"You would have to have a heart for him to be able to save it," I belittle.

I'm sure that I look like a complete idiot with my eyes focused so intently on the wall.

I don't think anything physical has gone on between the two men thus far. I pray that Kurt refuses Sebastian's proposal, even though I know that he is such a sucker for a romantic kiss. It'd make one large dent in his willpower, I'm sure. I want to analyze my friend's face, but I can't bring my eyes to stray from the stone.

"I'm only doing this because I don't want to risk diminishing my already shoddy chances of finding my perfect man, okay? This doesn't mean that anything has changed between us," Kurt proclaims.

_Yeah right._

Quinn laughs, and pats the back of her hand against my forearm to get my attention. I finally divert my eyes from the wall to watch as Sebastian pulls Kurt forward and onto his toes by his ascot. Kurt inhales audibly at the first touch of lips on his. It's clearly visible how lost in it Kurt becomes almost instantaneously. His fingers curl over the hand that Sebastian has fisted around the ascot.

Although there is still the occasional passersby, and although I feel this is just a disaster waiting to happen, everything about this scene screams private moment. Because of that, I turn my eyes away from the display, almost perfectly in time with Quinn doing the same.

"Awkward," Quinn breathes.

For a moment, I had forgotten how close to me she's standing. I resent my brief lapse of awareness, because her proximity is all the more striking.

"Definitely," I say with a grimace.

"Get on with it, ladies. It isn't as if you haven't licked each other's gums a thousand times before!" Sadie goads enthusiastically.

Quinn's neck twists towards Sadie's voice, and the ends of her hair float up subtly before falling back down to frame her face once again. She is, quite literally, art in motion.

Panic, long anticipated, rises in my throat as her enchanting hazel come fully into my view once again.

"It's probably just a stupid story made up for equally stupid tourists," I offer lamely.

Most likely, that_ is_ the case. Even if something akin to the builder's story happened, it was probably a fluke, and it's doubtful that others were actually impacted by such a curse.

"Yeah, probably," she echoes absent-mindedly.

There's a tightening of her mouth. A mouth that I'm determinedly _not_ staring at. My hands are on the verge of sweating.

"If I had to kiss Sebastian, you two can handle it," Kurt claims, and I notice for the first time that Kurt and Sebastian have both escaped from the archway.

"_Had_ to? Porcelain, please, you're wearing your_ just been fucked_ face," Sadie calls him out, as he smooths down the non-existent wrinkles of his ascot.

She's right. He looks super dopey and borderline windblown. _Fuck_.

I regret introducing Sebastian into Kurt's life, and it pulls at my stomach in such a demanding way, that it almost dominates over my panic concerning the expectation for me to kiss Quinn.

"We don't have to do this," Quinn says in a resigned whisper.

Her eyebrows are low as she takes the inside of her lip into her mouth._ Is she hurt by my reluctance?_

I know the answer to that question. It's apparent in the shake of the speckles of gold beneath the flutter of her eyelashes.

So, I kiss her.

The move may have been an impulsive one, seemingly without much forethought, but my mind goes into overdrive immediately.

_What am I doing? Why didn't I just walk out and say fuck this nonsense? Am I trying to prove something to myself? To her? To my meddling friends?_

It's not an unpleasant kiss. It's not much of anything really.

Yes, her lips are soft, although slightly dry from the sun. And yes, my breath catches in my throat. But the world doesn't fall away from around us. Electricity fails to ripple through me.

It's funny almost, because the slightest touch from her as of late has done unreasonable things to my body. It makes me wonder if I've built the past encounters of our lips into almost movie-like memories. It's difficult to believe that I've deluded myself to such a degree.

On top of every other thought racing through my head, I'm also hyper aware of the fact that there are people watching us during the first kiss that we've had in nearly eight years.

Our lips aren't even moving, but it's going on for longer than the length of a peck should. I don't know why I didn't just go that route. That would have been so much simpler, but now I feel as though I'm in this half-kiss limbo. The degree of pressure doesn't even feel right. It feels awkward and forced, to say the least.

If I was panicked before, I'm downright mortified now.

Without further delay, I lean back from our kiss to salvage whatever dignity I have left.

I can't imagine how insanely uncomfortable things are going to be now and I don't want to even begin to imagine what unflattering thoughts Quinn must be having in regards to my grown-up kissing abilities.

My eyes barely have enough time to open before strong and determined hands are on my hips, rotating me to push me roughly against the unforgiving stone of the wall. My back lands _hard_, and this time my breath doesn't catch, it feels as though it's literally taken from me.

There's a burning resolve in Quinn's greener than usual eyes, and she makes the faintest shake with her head. It's probably not even a full second that we share, but it feels potent.

The moment passes as powerfully as it came, because now her hands are on my neck and she's pulling my face into hers. And _fuck_ if I don't feel _this_ kiss everywhere.

Her nose presses into my cheek, and unlike before, I am entirely consumed by her.

Her body does this indescribable thing where it seems to rise into me (even though she's about an inch taller than me right now since I'm not wearing heels for once); it's a familiar movement that never failed to make me feel wanted in the past.

It sure as hell makes me feel wanted now. My hand seeks out to grip her hip to show her just how much.

No one moves their body quite like Quinn, no one moves their lips quite like she does, no one unravels me completely like this.

I'm not concerned with how weak or shaky my legs may be, because she has me pressed so firmly against the wall.

Her lips no longer feel even remotely dry as they overlap my bottom lip. She sighs deeply as she brings her body further into mine.

Short fingernails dig into the back of my neck, and I release a sharp breath into her mouth.

There's a wolf whistle that snaps Quinn out of whatever fervid state that she's been in. Her lips regrettably leave mine.

Quinn's burning cheek slides against mine, but she never completely separates her skin from mine. My breath comes out in uncontrolled spurts, and I realize that her hands have released my neck.

"Sorry, I-" she says with _such_ breathlessness, that there is nothing else for me to do but to turn my lips back to hers.

She tastes like the sorbet she had just finished, but more than that she tastes like the headiest version of home could taste. For this kiss, it's _my_ hand on her cheek that drives _her_ closer.

I'm not thinking. I'm wholly present in this moment with her. I'm not concerned with showing her what she's been missing all of these years or something equally as stupid. I'm not worried about how much shit Sadie and Kurt are going to give me after this.

It's all sensation, just like I remember.

My lungs don't burn so much as they flare unpredictably beneath my rib cage. There's an undeniably shared desperation to our movements, although we aren't quite frantic. Our bodies attempt to strike the non-existent but ideal balance between savoring something that we've missed for years, and submitting to our desire absolutely.

Lithe fingers thread insistently through the hair at the nape of my neck, and my lips part in a gasp. She takes the opening as an opportunity, and I swear to _fucking_ god that I actually tremble with the first aggressive touch of her tongue against mine.

A not-so-soft projectile collides menacingly against my cheek and neck, and I can feel it practically explode on impact. My eyes fly open to discover that Quinn and I have been significantly splattered by the innards of what I can only guess to be a cannoli. My chest heaves, more from the kiss than its abrupt end, and I'm sure that the glare that I direct at Sebastian is matched in effectiveness by Quinn's.

Bodies separate, and shaky limbs detach as Sebastian tauntingly wiggles his fingers in my direction.

"I knew that you weren't the most evolved of creatures, Lopez, but you should really give me a head's up the next time that you're literally feeling like a bitch in heat. Mr. Costa was kind enough to donate his snack to me since there were no leashes or shock collars handy," Sebastian condescends.

I wipe as much of the dessert as I can off of my clothing as Quinn and I finally exit the arch together. I fish my sunglasses out of my tangled hair to cover my eyes. If only I could cover my reddening face as well.

As we walk to the car, I don't want Sebastian's comments to go unchallenged, but I honestly don't trust my voice. I don't trust much of anything right now.

I start small, or so I think, and concentrate on slowing my speeding heart. It's far from easy, and I swear that I can actually feel Quinn's body heat radiating as she walks next to me.

My face is sticky, and I'm counting the minutes until I can wash this mess of sweetness off of me. My mind is far more of a mess than my clothing, and my body feels as though it's still buzzing with whatever took place against the wall.

Sadie's lips are practically splitting with as huge as her smile is, and I fight the juvenile impulse to trip her. Kurt's focus is continually landing on Sebastian, of course.

There's not much chatter, aside from the occasional quip or snarky remark about the clock tower scene. I wish people were talking more, because having Quinn so close after what just happened between us is just _too much_.

Sadie overzealously claims the front seat, even though there are more than enough seats in the back of the vehicle. No one sat by the driver on our way here. It's odd, and I have this tingling feeling that her motivation is not rooted in a desire to leave the "kissing couples" alone in the back.

Kurt, surprisingly enough, takes the seat next to me. Perhaps he wants space between himself and Sebastian just as I want space from Quinn.

The conversation picks up on our drive back to the hotel to drop Sadie off and to finish the last of our packing, but my attention is not devoted to the resuscitation of today's events. Sadie's captured my curiosity, and a puzzle to solve is just what I need to keep my mind busy and off of Quinn.

Sadie is clever, but not as sly as she believes herself to be. When the conversation is at its most animated she takes the opportunity to press several bills into the wrinkled hand of our driver. I'm able to ascertain the value of at least two of the bills. It's too much money for a tip, and the driver expense (tip included) is on our company dime anyway.

I can count on two hands the number of times I've seen her look more pleased with herself than she does right now.

And just like that, I've cracked the puzzle.

I jerk forward violently at the realization, but the seat belt bites roughly into my torso, as it abruptly becomes taut against my chest.

"You manipulative bitch," I spit out harshly.

Sadie's smug expression vanishes at my words, and I recognize that Kurt has leaned away from me.

"What the fuck has happened to your impulse control, Lopez? Get your shit together," Sebastian scolds from the seat directly behind mine.

I drive my nails into my palms to stop myself from launching back there to finally beat the shit out of my asshole partner.

But for once, he's not the source of my anger. A gentle and consoling hand, that I know to be Quinn's finds my shoulder, and I flinch away from it.

I'm out of the car before it can come to a full stop.

I can hear her jogging behind me, as I reach the room that I've been sharing with Rachel, but I don't throw the door closed in Sadie's face as much as I would like to do so.

"You can't leave like this, Santana. It'll be weeks before I see you again," Sadie reminds me, as I rip the remaining clothes off of their hangars.

"You need to get out of my space right now," I say between gritted teeth.

"No. You can yell at me if that's what you need to do. I can stand here until you've finished throwing everything into your luggage. But if you think you're going to scare me with your temper into not talking about this then you're sorely mistaken," Sadie asserts unwaveringly.

I would never hurt her. She knows it as concretely as I do. But I hate getting cornered like this when I'm upset. I've grown from the girl who used to cruelly degrade people when I would be boxed in like this. I used to take advantage of every vulnerability that had ever been exposed to me.

It's very rare that I stoop to that level anymore, but _god_, am I tempted. When I spin to face her, she doesn't flinch, but she also doesn't appear to be remorseful in the slightest.

"This isn't a game. I don't know what you think you're doing, but it needs to stop right now," I demand.

"It was a just a joke! A well-played one at that. You have to admit that story was genius," she contends.

"A joke?! It wasn't a fucking joke, Sadie. Quinn and I were finally at a place where I thought we could be friends and now it's all so_ fucked_," I curse.

She rolls her eyes in exasperation, and it makes me want to strangle her.

"Honey, you were kidding yourself if you ever thought that a simple friendship was a possibility with her. Anyone within a mile of that clock tower could feel how fucking _not_ simple it is between the two of you," Sadie claims.

"You had no right. It felt good to have her back. You can't even begin to understand." My voice loses the majority of its venom by the time I've finished speaking. Defeated, I sit down on the bed.

"You're right. I haven't felt what you have; I'm actually living in the real world. But if you want to live in a world of make believe, and pretend that the two of you don't still have significant feelings for each other then that's your choice, and maybe I should have respected that choice," she yields somewhat.

"Just stay out of my business, Sadie," I direct cooly without so much as a look in her direction.

She sits down next to me, and I don't slide away when she places her hand on the middle of my back.

"Will one of my rare apologies make you feel better? Because I'll give you that. I love you. You're like my hot sister who I used to have sex with in a non-weird way. I'm sorry that I paid Mr. Mustache Driver to tell that crock of a story. I shouldn't have pushed you into something that you weren't ready for," she apologizes.

It helps, but it doesn't fix what was broken today.

Sadie is probably right; we were probably playing a game of pretend, or at least I was. But, it was a game that I had wanted to keep playing.

"I don't know how we can come back from this," I lament as I plop backwards, squishing her hand beneath me.

She whines as she slides her crushed hand from underneath my body.

"Just tell her how much her friendship means to you, baby girl. She'd be a fool to give up now," Sadie suggests reassuringly.

I don't know what I'm going to say to her, but I do have a very good feeling that the plane ride home is going to be an interesting flight and most likely a very uncomfortable one as well.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter XVII**

**A/N: ckeller48 is my beta, and a fine beta she be. **

* * *

**Quinn's POV**

I unbuckle my seatbelt without looking at it even though we've been allowed to remove them for the past half hour at least. I'm deliberately fixated on the book that Ms. Clemens recommended to me months ago, but my determination is getting me nowhere; I've been reading the same line since I first cracked open the binding, and I still couldn't tell you what it says.

I wish I could say that I'm too concerned about Kurt to dedicate any significant focus to my book, but that wouldn't be the truth. I should be worried about _him_ with how he's been practically glued to my side from the time we arrived back at the hotel, to his position in the chair closest to mine on the plane now.

Kurt unloaded every thought he had been holding back as soon as we entered Sadie's hotel room earlier. Admittedly, I didn't catch most of what he was saying. I busied myself with packing, and offered him little in the form of acknowledgement. I absorbed only bits and pieces of his ranting. He called Sebastian all kinds of names like insufferable, arrogant, and cruel. "Jackass" came up more than once, but it was words like sexy, mysterious, and charming that made me want to cover my ears until he was finished. Kurt debated with the air about how Sebastian was capable of being very sweet, and how something _must_ have happened in his past to make him act like an asshole the vast majority of the time.

He was itching to give Sadie a piece of his mind, but I knew that he wanted her brutal honesty about his Sebastian feelings as well. I've been there; where the person who has pissed me off is the person who I want to talk to most. And I wasn't exactly being receptive. He eventually gave up on me offering him anything of substance and tried to call Rachel from the hotel phone.

All I can do is be present for him, and obviously that's all he's able to offer me right now as well. He's in a fit of self-involvement currently, and I'm too occupied to fault him too much for that. I know that he'll eventually apologize eventually, in any case. Maybe by the end of the plane ride, maybe tomorrow, who knows?

I get it. He's having a momentary crisis because he's falling for someone that he's not even sure that he _likes_. But I have my own feelings to sort through.

Sadie looked so apprehensive when she moved to hug me goodbye at the hotel. I was confused by it, until I remembered that she made the whole archway story up. I should probably be mad at her, but I'm not. I don't blame anyone but myself.

I'm the one who flirted shamelessly with my ex-girlfriend all fucking day, and I'd be lying if I said that I didn't think about pulling her into multiple empty doorways that we passed throughout the morning and afternoon.

I _wanted_ her to kiss me. No, it wasn't the ideal circumstances for our first kiss in so many years, but I wanted to feel those maddeningly perfect lips on mine, and I wanted to know that she wanted it too.

I lost perspective for a few hours. I don't know if it was because of that town, or because I let myself get lost in how natural things were with her. Whatever the case may be, logically I was aware of how shaky our friendship foundation was, but for a few hours, that awareness just couldn't compete with my awareness of _her_.

In all fairness, I had all but resigned myself to the kiss not happening when she went right in for it.

And god was it _awkward_. I could literally _feel_ how tense she was.

I don't know what I expected. We were in public, and our friends were watching for goodness sake. But I wasn't expecting _that_.

Her kiss has literally haunted my dreams for years. I can't even begin to count how many times I've hated myself upon waking; not for having the dreams themselves, but for _wanting_ so desperately to fall back asleep.

And who hasn't fantasized about kissing their ex senseless upon encountering them again just to prove that you can?

To have the kiss turn out like_ that_, was much like building up to an incredibly intense orgasm just to have your lover walk out as you're about to go over the edge.

I'm sure we both had a part in the awfulness that transpired, but I can't point any fingers at anyone but myself for what happened after that.

I just remember thinking "No! This is _not_ how this is going to happen," and suddenly I had Santana pinned against the wall.

It's crazy how two kisses can be so different. I suppose that's why there are so many songs, movies, and books about it. But, as much as I love all of the art forms, they're limited. Even with my own artwork, I can only hope to convey so much. Because at the end of the day, it's really what you _feel_ during a kiss that makes it worth writing about or singing about.

Supposedly, Santana has always been a fantastic kisser. Mike could have actually taken some credit for that, but he never was the kind to do so. In sixth grade, Santana pushed him down behind the concrete wall near the basketball courts, and told him that _she_ was going to teach _him_ how to kiss. I knew better, of course. As her best friend, I knew that the most kissing Santana had ever done up until that point were wet pecks on the playground.

But by the time we were in high school, Santana was known for her kissing (among other things). Brittany, for example, used to talk about Santana's mouth until Puck's head was practically spinning. Santana's nothing if not passionate.

I remember thinking that my first kiss with her was the best I ever had. And, at the time, I'm sure I convinced myself that it was because I had only kissed clueless boys before that. But, in truth, some of them weren't half bad (Puck was pretty decent, if a little rough and overeager with his tongue). But I don't think it would have mattered if she had an Olympic gold medal in kissing or if she had been worse than most of the boys; I was screwed when it came to her, regardless.

And today, for once in a very long time, I really felt like I was seeing who she was now rather than remembering who she was before. I wasn't kissing a dream or a memory. I was kissing _her_.

I'm honestly surprised that I'm not still blushing. It wasn't my classiest of moments, by any stretch. The foot traffic had slowed in that area, and I'm relatively sure that at least Kurt would have turned away from watching us like Santana and I turned away from his kiss with Sebastian, but it was still _public_.

It's shameful really, how quickly I lost control once my lips connected with hers the second time. I had barely found a thread of self-control to hold onto when she kissed me for the third. It was better somehow than what I remembered. It's difficult to believe, with how people, myself included, tend to build romantic moments of their past into impossible ideals. But it _was_ better. My mind isn't capable of dreaming up what I experienced today.

My arms erupt in goosebumps when I think about where things would have gone had we been alone. I know I wouldn't have been able to stop. It's hours later, and I still feel a pull to the bed cabin behind me (where Santana is). I picture her sitting on the bed now, face etched in sincere concentration. I wonder how she would react if I entered the cabin without a word, and slid the straps of my dress off of my shoulders. Would she tell me to stop if I straddled her, and pushed her back onto the bed?

I know she doesn't get much sleep these days, but after almost eight years, I'm pretty confident that she could last the duration of this flight with me. Her body seems stronger than it's ever been, and I have no doubts about her stamina. If our kiss is any indicator of what our sex would be like then...

_Jesus Christ. I need to stop._

I cross my legs at the thigh as an attempt to signal to my body that it needs to calm the hell down. I try to read the sentence in my book once more, but my thoughts float back to kissing.

I think about the goodnight kiss that I was given on my last date by Nadia (I think that was her name), and how clinical and routine it felt. And how although she's pretty and successful, and made me laugh plenty of times that night, I still haven't called her. I mean, I _have_ been in Italy, but she's only crossed my mind a couple times this entire trip.

When I finally felt ready for a relationship after Santana, and when I was finally ready to be open about my sexuality I deliberately restricted my dating to women who had very little in common with my ex. And not just concerning physical characteristics (although I laughably avoided brunettes for a time and probably seemed like I had racist tendencies in my complete avoidance of any women who remotely appeared as if they had Latin American ancestors). It got so ridiculous that I had narrowed my prospects to quiet women who worked in science fields with no musical talent to speak of.

When I realized what I was doing, I wondered if I truly was _ready_, and I went back to square one. It's one thing to be determined to not draw comparisons between past and present lovers, and another thing to work so incredibly hard to make comparisons impossible to draw.

Of course, I've grown from that, but I'd be stupid to ignore how miserable my dating life has been since Santana has come back into my life. Shortly after I moved to NYC, I started seeing a woman, Rebecca, exclusively for close to five months. I met her at my first paid photography gig which happened to be her brother's senior picture shoot. Her style was far more laid back than the women I had been accustomed to dating in California, and her smile reminded me of Tina's. She was secure in herself, and sexy, and very family-oriented.

Her closeness with her family often made me yearn for my connections that had been severed years before. She was a couple years older than me, and talked about children a lot, but I was still taken off guard when she brought up the idea of having a family with me. I had no good reason as to why not, but after taking some time to think about it, I just couldn't see that with her. It broke my heart to break hers, and I haven't had a relationship since.

I wish Mercedes was here. I know that I'll call her tomorrow afternoon, because I won't want to worry her by calling at the odd hour that will be our landing time, but a phone call just isn't the same as actually having her here anyway. I try to think about what she'd say about all of this.

I'm sure she'd shake her head disapprovingly and say something along the lines of "oo girl" when I'd tell her about the kiss, although she'd still want to know every detail. She'd lose track of the purpose of my story briefly, to talk about how badly she needs a good kiss from a sexy man with hands that have actually done some real work in their lives. She'd bitch about how all of the men on her tour are gay or wouldn't know how to handle a woman like her anyway.

I wouldn't interrupt her. I'd just smile until she remembered that we were talking about my Santana issue rather than her lack of man issue. She wouldn't apologize when the realization hit her; she'd just ask me for my truths. "Start with what you _know_, baby girl," she'd say.

I'd roll my eyes, but I'd do it anyway. My mind inevitably would go-as it always does when Mercedes guides me to do this-to how Santana convinced me to be with her all of those years ago. She put her truths on parchment and left them for me to find in my locker every day for three weeks. I kept all of them, and read them more often than I would care to admit. I think I can still recite the first one.

* * *

_**Quinn,**_

_**You once told me that you wanted to know me, and more than anything, I want to give you everything that you want.**_

_**Each day I will tell you something about me that I've never told anyone else. I will fill as many pages with my truths for as many days as it requires. I will write until you know me. I will write until you trust how I feel about you.**_

_**You may not have been able to depend on me before, but you can depend on me for this. This is an expectation that I will set and meet.**_

_**Eventually, if you do so allow me, I will show you with more than just parchment how serious I am about this and about you.**_

_**Yours,**_

_**Santana**_

* * *

I laugh bitterly, and inaudibly, at how I used to think that Santana was guarded and secretive. 17-year-old Santana has nothing on 26-year-old Santana in that respect.

But this isn't about her truths; it's about mine.

Staring down at the same fucking sentence of my book I make a mental list of what _I_ know:

**_1. I am attracted to Santana. I have been since that very first day she walked by the wall._**

**_2. This trip has proven to me that I very much want her friendship._**

**_3. Santana is the biggest question mark in my life right now._**

**_4. Her job scares me._**

**_5. In all likeliness she is going to be in my life for a long time. She's bonded for life to people who have become some of my closest friends._**

**_6. She's basically a permanent fixture, because of the former, and it would be unwise for things to get physical between us again before we know exactly what this is._**

**_7. I want to get to know her better before I decide what I want this to be._**

**_8. By her reaction in the car, it's clear that she's far from apathetic about the kiss, and I know after today, if I didn't know before, that our attraction is definitely mutual._**

"_You_ are the one who took it past appropriate," Kurt alleges pointedly, and his argument with Sebastian interrupts my thought process.

It's ridiculous how I have no idea how long they've been arguing for. I've been in my own world for sure. But now that I'm aware of it, I'm definitely uncomfortable.

"If I pretend to agree with your bullshit will you shut up?" an exasperated Sebastian poses back to Kurt. His laptop is sitting next to him on the couch, and it appears as though he would much rather be working than having this discussion.

Kurt leans back in his chair with an offended look on his face.

"If you think you can tell me-" Kurt begins to threaten, and Sebastian's body seems to coil back in the snake-like way I've seen him do before.

"You're a grown man, Kurt. If you regret kissing me back like you did then just fucking come out with it. Own it. I'd much rather hear that than listen to one more second of you placing responsibility on everyone but yourself, because news flash, you aren't _that_ innocent, your shit _does_ stink, and you _do_ make mistakes just like everyone else," Sebastian scathes, and Kurt's mouth falls open in response.

I don't say anything, because this seems like a one-on-one conversation, despite the fact that I'm sitting right here, and Beverly is probably within earshot as well (although she's in the rearmost part of this cabin). Also, as surprising as it is even to myself, I do agree with Sebastian's points. Kurt does tend to place the blame on others, and he can be awfully judgmental.

I make a point of staring intently down at my book.

"Is this fun for you? Are you so bored with your life that you try to see if you can get people to sleep with you after insulting them for months? I will never understand why you would go to all of this effort to have sex with someone who you don't even like!" Kurt spits back, and I can tell that his voice is in danger of going to the screechy place soon.

Kurt and Sebastian have spent a lot of alone time together over the past few months. I've heard almost a complete play-by-play of every incident from Kurt, which to me is a clear indicator that he doesn't hate Sebastian as much as he would like to pretend.

"My lord, you are a daft one. You are annoying, and judgmental, and you dress like a drag queen archeologist who regularly goes to Clue themed mystery dinner parties. Do you actually believe that I would go to so much work just to fuck you? Have you seen me? I am a god among gay men. This jaw and these cheekbones are no joke. And you've what? Slept with maybe five men in your entire life? What do you think you could offer me that I couldn't get from a million other men?" Sebastian berates.

I can see Kurt's lip curl in emotion out of my peripheral vision, and I can't fight the instinct to say anything any longer. Kurt has his flaws, just like everyone else, but I'm not one to sit idly by while my friends are ridiculed.

Kurt beats me to the punch, however.

"You can talk about how good looking you are as much as you want, but you have the ugliest personality that I have _ever_-" Kurt sneers.

"You fascinate me. You're unlike anyone else I've ever met," Sebastian interrupts to admit.

_Well, that just took an unexpected turn._

I tap awkwardly on the arm of my chair a few times, before I make up my mind to go back to the bed cabin where Santana is. I don't feel quite ready to tackle this conversation, but there's no way that I'm going to sit and listen to this for another second. I've well overstayed my welcome.

I offer a sympathetic smile to Beverly who is seated in the chair closest to the bathroom. I feel the most sympathetic towards her in this situation, because she's stuck in this cabin with this fog of awkward tension that she did nothing to create. She has her earphones in, at least.

I rap my knuckles lightly against the bed cabin's door as soon as I reach it. When there's no answer, I force myself to knock louder before I lose my nerve.

"What?" she snaps from behind the door.

_Great._ I sigh. It's not exactly the mood I was hoping to find her in.

"It's Quinn, may I come in?" I request sweetly.

There's a shuffling, and an obvious hesitation of sorts before she responds.

"Uh, yeah sure," she consents.

When I push the door open, I see that she's sitting cross-legged on the bed with her laptop in front of her and dozens of papers fanned out around her. I don't know how she's comfortable sitting like that when she's still wearing the tight green and white skirt that she's had on all day. It must have not been hit by the cannoli like the rest of her. I wonder why she didn't put something more comfortable on after the shower she must have taken.

"Sorry, I thought you were Sebastian," she explains, before sitting back to lean against the headboard behind her. The anxiety on her face causes me to wonder if she would have preferred for it to be Sebastian.

She has her glasses on, and she's put her hair up sometime between her escaping back here as soon as we were free to "move about the cabin", and now. It's not the high Cheerio regulation ponytail that used to give all of us headaches; it's much looser and I can tell that she's tucked any strands that have fallen behind her ear. It's created this perfect sweep just above her right eye.

_Fuck, I'm staring._

I force myself to look away as I shut the door behind me.

"No, he's otherwise engaged," I inform her. It's quite the understatement.

Santana narrows her eyes, before they flash in frustration.

"Oh god. I will toss both of their asses off of this plane if they're working out their sexual tension in front of Beverly. She doesn't deserve to be submitted to that shit," Santana threatens, shutting her laptop apparently to give me her full attention.

I smile at the image of Sebastian being hurtled out of the plane. I'm relieved; this is already less uncomfortable than I expected it to be.

"I think she's safe. Kurt isn't the exhibitionist kind-well, today aside," I awkwardly tag onto the end.

By the upward twitch of her lips, Santana doesn't miss the reference.

"He prefers the cutesy kind of PDA that makes me want to jump out of this plane myself when I see it," Santana gags.

I'm not buying it. I know Santana loves seeing her friends happy. It's absolutely obvious.

Honestly, I regret that I missed out on the "cutesy PDA" with Santana. I was proud to call myself hers, even if I wasn't ready to show the world that when we were together.

It felt _good_ the first time I held my girlfriend's hand in public, but there was a lingering sadness there as well. I almost felt like it was an experience that Santana had earned, and yet I was giving it away to someone else.

I feel awkward all of the sudden, as if she can see right through me. I shift my weight on my heels, abruptly conscious of the fact that I still have my book in my hand.

As if she can actually read my mind, she gestures for me to sit down across from her on the bed, and shifts her papers around to give me more room.

"That's good though. I remember how nervous he was with Blaine sometimes," I recall, grateful for the distraction that movement provides. I slip off my shoes, and tuck my legs into my side once I've made it onto the bed.

It was reasonable for him to be nervous; Kurt was tortured in high school because of his sexuality, even before he came out. Those of us who were popular in Glee did what we could to protect him, but we weren't all powerful. I mean hell, look at Santana; she was easily one of the most popular girls in our school, and yet she was still jumped by six guys at Prom because she was a lesbian.

"Can you blame him in our town? People acted like if two men were together they were asking to get beat up. Two women? Raped," Santana admonishes.

It's a rhetorical question, I'm sure. Santana knows that I'm well aware of how conservative and close minded our town and school were. My father was a church and conservative leader there after all.

But who knows what it would have been like there without Kurt and Santana. They didn't change every mind, but they changed many, and they made it much easier for others to come out after them.

Santana was recruited by an anti-bullying commission after she won Prom Queen our senior year. She had some reservations about it, that I talked her through, since she had definitely been a bully herself during our early years of high school (to be fair, so was I; I was worse than she was sometimes). I'm sure her past made it all of the more impactful, however. Prom Queen, national champion cheerleading captain, former bully, who was also a victim of a hate crime? You can't write something more perfect than that.

Kurt went along with her frequently to the events. I remember how much that meant to him.

"I think you both really made a difference," I tell her, and she looks at me with such fondness that I find myself grinning stupidly in return.

"Maybe. But I figure the more we hide, the more we encourage others to think that it's something that needs to be hidden," she minimizes.

I know it isn't a jab at me or my past. A younger me probably would have jumped to that conclusion, and this conversation would have taken an unproductive turn. Maturity has its perks sometimes.

"True, although I'm not sure if I would advocate for _anyone_ doing what we did under that archway earlier," I reference casually. It's not exactly how I wanted to bring it up, but I took the opportunity that was presented to me.

Santana's smile fades, and she picks up her pen to roll it between her fingers.

"Yeah, about that..." she breathes, and there's a brief fluttering of long eyelashes before dark eyes regard mine.

It's the mature thing to do, to talk about this. The sensation developing in my stomach doesn't feel mature, however.

"Yes, about that. We should probably talk about it," I declare, and I hate how stiff my tone sounds now.

I want her face from a minute ago back. I want our dynamic to be as easy as it was today.

"I agree," she says with a humorless nod.

I take a deep breath. I figured that getting her to talk about it was going to at least be half the battle, but she's surprised me yet again. I wish I had practiced more of a speech for this, or have had more time to think about what I was going to say before Kurt and Sebastian got into it.

Her eyes dart around my face curiously, and I feel as though I'm bare before her. I know it's more of a science than a superpower and that she's not actually telepathic, but it doesn't assuage my paranoia. I don't want her to know just how significant this friendship is to me already. I don't want her to know how much work it is for me to keep my eyes from her mouth. I desperately don't want her to know how badly I want to feel her body beneath mine again. I don't want her to know how chaotic everything is in my head right now.

"Okay, great. Okay, so I know that I haven't actually said the words, but I think you can tell that I'm attracted to you. I mean you're beautiful, of course, you always have been, but it's really that you're just..." I stop myself, feeling my eyes grow wide as I recognize what I'm saying.

_Oh my god._

This is not how I wanted to start. Actually, I don't believe I intended on saying either of those things period. And I'm pretty sure that I just sounded more like a 17-year-old Rachel Berry than I did myself.

I'm fighting the flush of my cheeks, and her left eyebrow is quirked at me, and I can see that she is warring with the desire to ask me to finish.

"You're _you_," I blurt.

Somehow, I manage not to look down, although my finger glides its way into a paper cut along the pages of the book in my hand. I bite down on my lip at the pain, and center in on the small silver hoops in her ears.

What a stupid thing to say. It's way too telling, and at the same time, I didn't explain myself at all.

"Man, Q, college taught you to be real articulate," she teases.

Her tone is light but her eyes are dark when I eventually raise mine to meet them. It's typical Santana. She'd rather smirk and make a joke than face anything real. It makes my blood run hot.

"Shut up, I'm doing the mature thing here, and all you're doing is sitting there with that cocky fucking smirk that makes me want to-"

"You're right. I was going to bring this up to you if you didn't," she interrupts me, and her smirk promptly disappears.

I swallow, and I blink probably about two times more than what would seem natural. I both hate and love how often she acts or reacts in ways I wouldn't have predicted.

"You were?" I sputter.

She lets the question hang there, and, at first, I believe it's a deliberate choice on her part. But her pen has stilled mid-spin, and the lines of her forehead tell a different story.

"I was, yeah," she confirms in a quiet voice.

I really need to start remembering that I'm dealing with adult Santana and not the teenager who was often so reluctant to discuss anything regarding feelings.

"And what were you going to say?" I inquire softly.

The dimple that is quickly forming in her right cheek, gives away the fact that she's combating a smile.

"Now that's just cheating, Fabray," she taunts playfully.

I glare at her, but there's no actual malice behind it. I'm sure it looks more affectionate than anything else, and that just frustrates me more.

"Do you ever make anything easy?" I challenge with an annoyed tone.

Santana's eyes snap to mine, and my chest seems to expand uncomfortably with air as her pupils dilate. There's a smug curve to her lips, and I'm ashamed to say that it turns me on. I don't have to be a mindreader to know what she's thinking.

"No, don't answer that," I say curtly, before taking a deep inhale. I adjust my book onto its face as a pretense for looking away from what I'm sure to find simmering in those brown eyes.

Santana releases a laugh that's thicker somehow than her usual. I know that laugh; it's colored by her delight over having such power over me.

"Bossy _girl_," she emphasizes slyly.

She's making it worse, and I'm positive that she knows it. There's a need churning dangerously inside of me, and if I give into it, it could destroy all of the progress we've made.

"Stop," I demand sharply. I sweep my eyes to her face, and I see that she's not going to call me out on giving her yet another bossy command. I tilt my head, pressing my fingers into my calf in hopes of grounding myself. "I mean-don't you think we should take this conversation seriously?"

Her brow falls at my sincerity, and she straightens her back.

"I do; I'll rein my crap in," she promises.

"Thank you, I guess," I murmur back.

And just like that the tension in the air between us returns. Instantaneously, it feels like it stretches to the point of splitting.

I'm frowning and debating where to go from here, when I feel her warm hand on my knee.

"This doesn't have to be weird, Q. We're friends now, right? Just tell me what's on your mind," she coaxes reassuringly.

It's so sweet, and her touch is so simple. Yet, it's still too much right now with everything that is vibrating inside of me, and with her thoughtful eyes skating around my face; I gently push her hand off of my knee.

Her mouth tightens, but she doesn't hesitate to withdraw her hand the rest of the way. It causes my heart to twist uncomfortably.

"That's pretty much it. I feel like we've barely started to make this work, and I don't want what happened earlier-" I reason.

"We kissed. You can say it," she interjects.

There's something formidable in her gaze, and I wish I could know what it means. It's not anger; I know that much.

"Okay. I don't want the kiss to to change anything. The first one was just-" I grimace at the memory.

"Awful," she finishes for me.

I laugh because she's exactly right, and I instantly feel a little more optimistic about everything when her laughter joins mine.

"Yes, it was terrible," I agree.

"Forever the perfectionist," she mocks me, plainly referring to the second kiss that I initiated.

"And what does that make you, Santana? Still trying to one up me after all of these years?"

She smiles warmly at my comeback. And it irks me how perfectly comfortable this moment would feel if it weren't for how my heart swells in response.

"So, we're good?" she concludes.

I could strangle her for that. We've hardly had a conversation at all, and I'm the only one who has said anything of substance.

"You haven't said anything!" I contend in frustration.

"Sure I have. I acknowledged the kiss. I said it didn't have to be weird. What else do you want me to say?" she questions pressingly.

I'm really not sure what else I want her to say. I suppose I just feel as if I've exposed more of myself than she has, and I want the score to be even. Maybe that's immature, but it doesn't change how I feel.

"You know for such a supposed badass, you're pretty cowardly sometimes," I say, and I can hear how low and harsh it sounds. I barely stop myself from wincing because of it.

Santana's lips press together, and she slowly uncrosses her legs, tugging them around her and to her side, mirroring my position. Only, not exactly, because she's leaning far more forward than I am.

There's no sign of volatility on her face, but my instinct tells me to lean back. Headstrong as always, I don't.

My nostrils flare as I inhale her tropical fruit scent. My breathing shallows, and I wonder just how close she is planning on getting.

Santana's chin is dipped down slightly, and her eyes glimmer with something unknown. My heart drums against my rib cage as I watch the muscles around her mouth clench warningly.

There's a restlessness to my hands, urging me to touch her somewhere, anywhere, but at the same time her demeanor is making me feel incredibly uneasy.

"Do you need to hear that I'm attracted to you? Does that even the playing field enough for you?" she interrogates without so much as a sneer or a smile. Her voice is dark, and borderline menacing. I've never heard it quite like this.

Our noses are so close that I'm convinced that a heavy exhale would have them pressing together. My body is as twisted in confusion as I am. I can't deny that desire is coiling low in my abdomen, but everything about her right now is making me increasingly anxious.

She's right; we both know it. I didn't need to hear it from her to know that the attraction was mutual, and I only wanted her to say it because I had admitted my end of it already.

"Does hearing that I want you make it easier for you to handle being my friend?" Her voice is almost unrecognizable this time.

The mint of her breath burns my skin of my nostrils as I inhale.

"Santana," I plead, hoping that she'll stop whatever this is.

Her fingernails ghost over the skin of my legs, and I'm not convinced that the bumps she leaves in her wake are pleasant ones. She doesn't move otherwise.

My throat constricts as this ensnared sensation makes me feel as though I may start choking on the lack of air soon. The pressure builds frantically inside of me until it fractures, snaps, and releases, and I shove Santana back by her shoulders.

I say I shove her back, but that's my intention rather than the reality. In fact, I'm not sure her body moves at all. It's inhumanly rigid, and I don't know if I'm more upset with myself for doing it, or upset because the push is a complete failure.

"Santana," I repeat, and I swear I can literally see her body relax. Impulsively, I push her back again, far less roughly than before, but she actually moves backwards this time. "You're scaring me," I explain, although it comes out as more of an accusation than an explanation.

She slides towards the headboard, and creates more space between us then there has been this whole time. Wrinkles form on her face where smooth skin once was. There's a tremble to her lips that I haven't seen in years, although it disappears as soon as my eyes flicker to it.

I could drown in my own guilt at this moment. I know she would never hurt me, and now that we're no longer in the position we were in before, I definitely feel as though I overreacted.

I should have told her that she was making me uncomfortable. "Scaring" was a poor choice of words on my part.

"I'm sorry." Her words come out in a ragged breath.

I crave for a moment of clarity with her, where I'm not feeling a million conflicting things at once like I am now. I feel on edge, and yet, like her visible agony has melted me into this mess of a puddle. I'm agitated with her for acting like she did towards me, and I'm irritated with myself for calling her a coward in the first place.

"This friendship is important-_you_ are important to me," she confesses without prompting, and I'm struck by how unsteady yet clear her voice is.

Her words give me this strange shadow of a weightless feeling, but it's anchored down by her deflated form in front of me. I cannot fathom how this person is the same person from mere minutes before.

Papers crunch and crackle beneath my hands as I crawl to her. She rolled over the same ones just moments ago so I assume that I'm not in danger of ruining her work.

Santana appears to be lost in her own thoughts and emotions, and she doesn't react to my approach. I'm not scared of her now.

I see a rippling echo in her eyes of the skinny girl who would sneak into my window at night, with rough, red eyes and tear stained cheeks. I was so young that I couldn't recognize the overwhelming feeling of helplessness for what it was. I called it "my sad" (which I recognize is probably a phrase that teenage Brittany would have used), and it bothered Santana every time she saw it on my face. She chased it away with stories of the animals that she saw on her walk over (which I'm sure were all made up), and jokes that she had read from the calendar that her uncle got her. Her pain was always more unbearable for me than my own.

So, I'm no stranger to feeling helpless when it comes to Santana, and I probably understand her issues even less now than I did then, but I've never been able to just do nothing when I can see that she's hurting.

It's not awkward, somehow, as I kneel to the side of her while her knees are practically flush with her chest; she extends her legs eventually when she realizes that I'm hugging her, and I can feel the muscles in her back fluctuate between freezing and relaxing under my hands.

My sigh seems to mimic hers when she finally sinks into me. Her arms wrap around my waist, and she doesn't appear to care that my face frees some more of her hair from her ponytail as I angle into her shoulder.

I couldn't tell you how many seconds or minutes pass before she speaks.

"What the hell are you doing, Fabray?" she murmurs jokingly. Her breath causes strands of my hair to tickle the shell of my ear.

Her arms tighten around me as if she fears that there is some chance of me taking her seriously. For someone so intuitive, she sure is dense sometimes.

I close my eyes, and allow myself to be completely swallowed by this. I'm consumed by her in a way, but it's much different than the kind of consuming that happened earlier under the archway.

She's so warm despite the artificial chill of the plane. It feels almost as if she just came in from being out in the sun. I breathe of her, and my skin tingles where my calf is touching her thigh.

The plane dips down just enough to take my stomach through a loop, and Santana chuckles softly into my hair when my nails dig into her back in response.

"You're okay," she promises, and it doesn't sound nowhere near as patronizing as I'm sure she intended.

Our hands seem to slip simultaneously from around one another, and I notice the peculiar smile on her face as I retreat back to my "spot" on the bed to retrieve my book. It takes at least a full minute of turbulent free coasting before my stomach settles again, and by then I'm just a step away from the door.

With our track record, I figure that this is the best possible ending point. I'm not fool enough to believe that there won't be more issues in the future, but for now, the water has calmed between us.

"Just stay in here with me, Q. Surely, even my company is preferable to the Kurt and Sebastian show," Santana suggests while she opens her laptop to power it back up.

"You sure about that?" I tease back, still feeling warm somehow from her hug.

"Suit yourself, but don't expect the door to be unlocked when you come running back," she says, smirking up from her screen.

She doesn't boast about it when I return to the bed; she knew what I would choose all along.

Time passes far more quickly with her in the room than it did out in the cabin after she left. I'm able to actually read and absorb a few chapters of my book in between conversations with her. We don't bicker, and any bantering that we engage in is toothless.

I'm nervous, at first, as if we're a boat that could capsize at any moment. The feeling fades, however, and I slip into something akin to the comfort with her that I felt earlier today.

Her smiles seem to come easier, as do mine with each passing minute. Now and then, as my head grows heavy, I permit myself to think about how best to fit myself beside her while she works. I don't actually plan on cuddling with her, although admittedly there is a constant ache within me to have her closer.

She teases me when I nod off periodically, and I don't hate it. Sometimes I respond, other times she just gets a look before I turn back to my book.

I don't know how it happens, but she gets on some rant about how ineffective the checks and balances for three branches of government are, and the animated movements of her hands are the only thing keeping my eyes open.

Our positions shift slowly, seemingly inch by inch, until I'm lying on my side with my body curved along the end and rightmost part of the bed; her overworked body is curled almost precisely like mine at the head of the bed.

She covers my feet with the blanket some time later, as if she knows somehow that they're cold, and I don't fight the beckoning of sleep this time when I drift into it.


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter XVIII**

* * *

**Santana's POV**

"I'm Phoebe," Brittany argues as she stretches her leg out on the back of Quinn's couch.

We've been here for at least three hours already working on Brittany's wedding checklist, and arguing over which female from Friends we are is about the most that Brittany has contributed this whole time. I'm more irritated than I usually get with Brittany, mainly because she changed plans on me last minute.

According to my calendar, I was supposed to meet Quinn and Brittany at Brittany's apartment at 2 p.m. today. But here I am sitting at Quinn's quaint dining room table and it isn't even noon yet. It's not that Brittany showed up at my door at 8 a.m. to tell me that Marley was hosting some bake-off event at their place, so we had to go to Quinn's (Puck's mom is visiting and is staying at our place). Brittany is spontaneous, I know that, and I'm accustomed to being flexible because of work; it's that I was wearing these cropped cargo bottoms that I've had for the past five years, and my hair was still drying from my shower, and Brittany insisted that I didn't have time to change.

Normally, I don't give that much of a fuck, but I really don't like looking this far from my best around Quinn.

"Ordinarily, yeah sure, you're Pheebs, but you're being way too high-maintenance about this wedding to be Phoebe," I contest.

Brittany is the worst kind of high-maintenance too; she tells us (more often me than others since I'm her Best Woman) what she wants, and she doesn't really care to see how or even if it can be accomplished.

"She's Phoebe," Quinn agrees with Brittany without looking up from her makeshift workstation. She's been creating different wedding program style choices to show Brittany all morning, and so far, Brittany hasn't been thrilled with any of them.

It bothers me that I only have eyeliner and mascara on, with air dried hair, while Quinn is sitting next to me looking as good as she does; her makeup is dark, but it isn't heavy, and her hair has this perfectly tousled look to it. It's just not fair.

"Yup, see San? And you're Monica and Quinn's Rachel," Brittany characterizes.

"There's no fucking way that I'm Monica," I debate.

Quinn places her hand over mine as a feigned gesture of comfort.

"You have a list of folders on your computer, and in your folders you have lists. Your lists literally have lists. You are Monica," she asserts.

"_You're_ Monica. Look at this apartment. It's spotless, and it's all knick-knacky and shit," I accuse back. I slide my hand out from under hers in favor of gesturing to punctuate my point.

She touches me so easily these days, like it comes completely naturally to her. It's not that it feels unnatural to me per se, it's just that it puts me on edge in a very particular way whenever she does it.

Okay, and it isn't _that_ spotless in here since her easel is set up in the livingroom area, and her art shit is scattered everywhere.

"It's not knick-knacky!" Quinn says with a huff.

"It's cute in here. It's like Quinn on a budget. And you are totally Monica. You're a mother hen like her only with razor blades hidden under your fur," Brittany defends. Her legs are spread and she's swinging her arms from side to side.

"Feathers, Britt," I correct her dryly.

"Duh, I know that, but you're too soft for feathers," Brittany counters with a roll of her eyes.

"You two are some kinda team now? Damn, Britt, here I thought you were getting married to Marley and Justin Timberlake, not Q," I mock.

Quinn smiles into her coffee cup, while Brittany pouts.

"Don't be a sour Santana," Brittany says in a childlike voice.

"She gets to be the hot, popular one with the iconic haircut that everyone loves, while I'm the former fat chick, who is anal as fuck and ridiculously obsessed with her biological clock. You'd be sour too, B," I complain.

"Anal isn't so bad. It can be fun, actually." Brittany shrugs.

My fingers still on the keys of my computer, and I give her a very unimpressed look.

"That's what you got from that? You haven't been listening at all today," I criticize, and Quinn gently kicks my calf under the table.

I flash her a dirty look, but, of course, Quinn doesn't waver under it. Complex hazel challenges me instead, and a shiver dances its way up my spine.

"Because it's boring! I want to be outside while it's still nice," Brittany laments, and prances over to Quinn's music dock.

"We'll be done much quicker if you actually pay attention. Q is doing more work than you and she's not even in the wedding party," I point out in vain; Brittany is fixated on scanning through the music database.

"I don't mind," Quinn offers softly.

Her lips are curved upwards, and I can't help but wonder what game she's playing at. If this is her attempt to lift my spirits then it isn't working. Well, not really anyway.

"She's in the party. She's my lovely lady shutterbug," Brittany professes affectionately.

"Aww, thanks Britt," Quinn coos back, but her eyes remain on mine.

I squint at Quinn, and her smile widens. Brittany releases an excited shriek which causes me to avert my stare from Quinn.

Britt is positively grinning, apparently waiting for the right moment to turn up whatever song it is that she's chosen.

"Seriously, you two can make out later. I have other shit I could be doing. Alright? Now who do you want to speak at the reception?" I pose to Brittany, as an attempt to get us back on track.

Brittany ignores my question, and bobs her head in preparation. She adjusts the volume dial before she rolls over the top of the couch. I narrow my eyes at the vaguely familiar opening of the song, when Brittany pops up from the couch; she's holding one of Quinn's large paint brushes like its a microphone.

_Let me tell you the story about the call that changed my destiny_

_Me and my boys went out, just to end up in misery_

Brittany has her sights set on Quinn as her first victim, as she sings at an obnoxiously loud volume. Quinn is biting down on her lip, making some half-hearted attempt to both focus on her task, and to refrain from laughing. From the ridiculous and determined look on Brittany's face, Quinn isn't going to last long.

_I was about to go home and there she was standing in front of me_

_Said 'Hi, I got a little place nearby_

_Wanna go?', I should have said 'No'_

_Someone's waiting for me_

_But I called my girl up and said_

It's always amazed me how someone with Brittany's dancing abilities can still manage to look like a complete goofball when she wants to. She overexaggerates her singing of every line, as she attempts to pull Quinn out of her chair. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't take much before she has Quinn out of her chair, and reluctantly singing along. I try my best to steel my face, and to appear as though I'm still working.

_Listen Baby I'm sorry_

_Just wanna tell you don't worry_

_I will be late don't stay up and wait for me_

_I'll say again you're dropping out my battery is low_

_So you know we're goin' to a place nearby_

_I gotta go_

I remember this song; we used to sing it in the Cheerios locker rooms and on the bus rides all the time.

So, admittedly, I might be grinning because the scene in front of me takes me back to the many afternoons we would spend in my bedroom after Cheerios practice. They're not in their Cheerios skirts (Quinn is wearing bright blue sailor shorts, and I'm pretty sure that Britt is the only 26-year-old who can pull off the suspender shorts that she's wearing) but Quinn keeps smiling in that radiant way that she does where all of her teeth show, and Britt looks like every inch of the weirdo that I love so much.

They gang up on me at every opportunity, but I would be lying if I said that I minded too much. It's worth it to hang out with them together again. Also, Brittany is pretty much the best buffer for Quinn and I. Whether intentional or not, she keeps things light and prevents them from getting awkward.

Come to think of it, Quinn and I haven't had any real issues lately. It's been almost two months since our trip to Italy, and I don't think we've had a serious argument since we returned to NYC. We've been seeing each other more frequently than ever, and not always in a group. Sure, we only seem to have one-on-one time in public, but it's friend progress all the same. It's not like I've deliberately avoided spending time at her apartment or mine with just the two of us; I mean, who wants to sit around and do nothing with their ex-girlfriend when they could be shopping or making fun of the tourists on Fifth Ave?

As the Backstreet Boys' impersonators approach, I know that I could put up more of a fight, but there's really no use. Not when Brittany is not-so-slyly shutting the lid of my computer as she backs her ass up into my lap. And not when I can hear the rasp of Quinn's singing voice above the music as her hair swishes from side to side while she dances with her hand on the counter.

Needless to say, I join the dorkfest. Within a verse, I'm acting just as shameless. I jerk my shoulders to the beat, imperfectly singing the lyrics, while Brittany makes her laughable badass face (it's more duckface than anything else) in front of me. Quinn is shaking her ass with a hand on each of our shoulders.

When I recognize Britt's next song selection, I laugh without restraint. When she struts towards me and says "Santana, can you handle this?" I laugh harder yet.

It doesn't feel real. I never thought that we'd be back to this again. I never believed that we'd reach this point of comfort between the three of us. I think about all we've been through and it seems almost impossible.

But somehow we've made it.

"You gotta do much better if you're gonna dance with me tonight," Quinn sings at me with emphatic eyebrows.

I'm pretty confident in saying that aside from the members of Destiny's Child themselves, Quinn is the only one who can make words like "jelly" and "bootylicious" sound sexy (or incredibly adorable at the very least).

We're on song three when my phone vibrates furiously on the counter and my work-related ringtone sounds off. Brittany pouts at me, but otherwise she doesn't do anything to try and stop me from leaving the dance party to check my phone. With one glance at the name (my newest client), I know that I have to answer.

"Is there somewhere I can take this?" I ask Quinn over the music, pointing to my phone.

She nods, and gestures to the only room that I haven't entered in this apartment; her bedroom. Thankfully, I answer just before it would have gone to my message service.

With Quinn's bedroom door shut behind me, I give my client a step-by-step of what she needs to do (even though I've talked her through this three times already, and she has a detailed copy of her instructions). Given all of the repetition, the conversation doesn't require much of my focus.

I resist the urge to snoop. Quinn trusted me enough to let be in here by myself, and I want to respect that. It's basically impossible for me to refrain from making any observations at all, however.

The room itself is moderately sized compared to the rest of the apartment. Thanks to the whole Rachel-slap incident, I have a pretty firm grasp on what Quinn's income looks like. It's modest for NYC, but above average for her field. She seems to be living reasonably within the constraints of her income, not that it would be any of my business if she wasn't.

It's feminine, as you would anticipate, but it lacks the frills and lace of her childhood bedroom. The colors are more muted, but they aren't dull. It smells faintly of paint, and citrusy sandalwood, and, of course, like Quinn.

My eyes sweep over to the bed, which is draped in white and lavender, and the material has this effect to it which reminds me of something Tyler showed me while Quinn and I were at his house for dinner the other week; it was a shallow white tub full of paint, and he skimmed the surface with this rake like instrument to create dynamic lines of color. I thought it was very cool, although the proud look on his face was even better.

As my client expresses her discomfort with lying for about the fifth time, I think about whether the girl from the date that Brittany asked Quinn about this morning made it this far. Did she stand where I'm standing? Did Quinn push her onto the bed or did they fall into it together? Did she stay the night entangled in these sheets with Quinn or did Quinn give her some version of the standard "I have to get up early" excuse?

Quinn and I have really found our friendship legs, so to speak. We talk in one form or another almost everyday, and I have this very real, very genuine affection for who she is now as a person, rather than who she was as a memory. But this isn't the first time that I've found out about her dating from the mouth of others rather than hers. She seems to have no issue discussing her dating life with Brittany or Sadie or Kurt or even Rachel these days, but for some reason she never brings it up with me. On the couple of occasions where our friends have raised the topic, I'm confident that I've kept my cool, so surely she doesn't omit that part of her life because she's worried I'll freak out.

I don't discuss my dating life with her either, but that's because I don't have one. I have sex, sure, but I've never made a habit of updating my friends on those encounters. Sometimes I'll text someone if something especially awkward or strange happened, or if the girl was an absolute freak, but I don't exactly switch on the bat signal to alert the posse that I've gotten laid.

To be fair, I don't ask her about it. I don't care to press Quinn on a subject that she's obviously uncomfortable discussing with me. More than that, it's a Catch-22. I want her to be able to tell me about her stuff, but I also can't ignore how shitty it feels already when I catch bits and pieces of it during her conversations with others.

I have no claim to her. We truly solidified our friendship agreement on the plane ride back from Italy. And sure, sometimes our eye contact lingers for longer than would be considered friendly, and maybe there were those two nights, four days apart (not that I made note of that or anything) where we may have taken turns drawing lazy patterns on each other's palms. The first night was when Kurt dragged us to his friend's premiering night at the Cabaret. I've been to a couple shows before, but never at this place, and I had no idea that they were going to be doing such acrobatic shit. Quinn was obviously impressed, too, because at one point she gasped and grabbed my hand. She didn't let go of it, even after the stage activity calmed, but she did allow it to rest between our legs, while she traced my palm with the pad of her finger. A couple drinks later, I returned the favor. And four days later, I found her hand under the blanket while we were watching a movie with Puck and this girl he works with.

That's not that weird though, right? Especially in my group. We've always been a touchy bunch. Rachel, for one, has this habit of draping herself over me, although she's been doing it more infrequently as of late. Sadie is an ass slapper, and surprise neck kisser. It's not like she gives anyone a hickey, it's just her version of an affectionate cheek kiss, I think. It confuses the hell out of Puck.

Speaking of Puck, he puts his arm around me unconsciously in this non-romantic but still somewhat possessive way so much that I hardly notice it anymore. Until it's cockblocking me, of course. Kurt is probably the least physically affectionate of our group. He tends to mirror the actions of others rather than initiating them himself. He'll tilt his head into someone who has rested their head on his shoulder or he'll give small pats (sometimes patronizing, sometimes comforting) to people on the back, shoulder, or arm. Brittany is on the other end of the spectrum. She rests her legs on everyone, she plays with people's hair, and she arm links. Basically, she regularly shows her love through physical means.

We're all huggers. Quinn is included in that. And now we're at a comfort level where we each fall into each other's line of goodbye hugs, and less frequently, hello hugs. Hugging her feels a lot different than hugging anyone else does.

It could very well be me. I could very well be over-analyzing moments that are simple gestures of friendship.

Either way, touching her and being touched by her feels unlike anything similar with my other friends.

I sure as hell don't stand in their bedrooms, staring at their beds, wondering who they last fucked. But here I am, slowly driving myself mad thinking about how skilled this woman was at making my ex-girlfriend arch.

I can't say I've never thought about it before, or had nightmares about Quinn with faceless lovers. I would wake and it was as if the dream would have this lingering grip on my gut. It was this aching, dark, and despondent pain. It was the kind of pain that made me want to curl into myself like I believed that somehow shrinking myself would shrink my pain with it. It use to be a hollow feeling; a missing, a mourning of something.

This pain is sharper, and it feels more _real_, for some reason. Maybe it's because I'm not imagining her laugh anymore; I can actually hear it outside of the bedroom door. And this bitter taste in my mouth isn't a remnant of sleep.

This isn't the recognition of an emptiness, or rather of a hole that needs to be filled. Whatever this is, it's already there inside of me, and it burns. It really fucking burns. It runs wildly and unpredictably throughout my core, searing everything in its wake. My skin, my muscles, it all searches to expand to escape, because it's like steam is rising up, making widespread contact with just a hint of the burn to come.

Miraculously, my therapist has actually pulled some of that out of me. She's stubborn, which is probably what I need. I tried offering her more money to see me outside of her normal business hours, but she refused, insisting that it's a step towards me matching my purported priorities to my actions.

She's gotten me to talk about Quinn, but she doesn't offer any insight into what any of it means. She asserts that she isn't an interpreter, but that she's a house of mirrors. I pretty much hate that analogy, because fuck, how many reflections does this bitch think I have?

My client disturbs my train of thought with a question that I haven't heard from her yet. I figure that it's time for me to turn away from the bed anyway, since although I'm no psychiatrist, I'm positive that it isn't healthy for me to continue to stare at it.

I take a step back as soon as I've spun around; there's a shadow box on the wall that runs from the door to the corner. It's almost four feet tall, and I've never seen anything like it. My eyes narrow in on specific sections and my breath vanishes before I've exhaled.

My mind clouds, and while I register that there is a person on the line, I'm uncharacteristically incapable of understanding what she's saying. I inform her in a voice that sounds far away even to me, that I have to put her on hold. With a clumsy thumb, I manage to do just that, before I allow my hand, and the phone with it to fall to my side.

It's breathtaking.

There are dozens of photographs of her art, as well as actual pieces. And there are pictures of her with people I don't know, and many pictures of her with people that I do. There are landscapes, and shots of what I would assume to be candids of strangers. There are programs from her showings, and graphics that she's created. There are pieces of fabric (presumably from old clothes), broken lenses, old keys, postcards, blending stumps, preserved flowers, and vinyl sleeves.

It's like I'm actually seeing inside of her head, but the thunder in my chest doesn't start until I begin to recognize various items within the 3D display. There are pictures of our Unholy Trinity, pictures of the two of us as children in elementary school, pictures of us in Italy, and at the Cabaret show, and of various other times we've hung out the past few weeks.

I think I had expected to be absent, but I'm very much included instead. I'm not just in a portion of the pictures; I'm also present in at least three of her drawings that I can see. The funny thing is, I'm pretty sure I've seen these drawings before. One of them is of the storage room where we first began to repair our broken friendship junior year. And it's like it's through Quinn's eyes. I'm sitting on the hard floor, mid-laugh, surrounded by boxes filled with equipment.

The second, is of a small section of our high school's marching band, flanked by a handful of Cheerios. Mercedes and Rachel are there, but the lines of the drawing lead the eye to me. I'm standing in the center of the snare drums with my sticks blurred in motion. We became a couple that night.

I'm sure the third would appear the most curious to a stranger. It's of me, once again, but this time I'm sitting in the back of a car with my knees hugged tightly to my chest. She's such a gifted artist. She captured how vulnerable and broken I felt in that moment perfectly. It's almost painful for me to look at. I'm tempted to tell the illustrated version of myself that my mood will change completely in just a few short moments, because Quinn will tell me that she loves me for the first time.

I swallow the lump rising in my throat, and move my eyes elsewhere. There's a small painting of the viewpoint from the back of a motorcycle. The sun is setting in it.

I move my eyes again. There's a familiar crown. It's a replica of the one that she won for Junior Prom Queen. Her first one was lost the night she was crowned, and I gave her this one the night we made love for the first time.

There are lines from literature, and movies, and others from who knows where strewn amongst everything else. And pieces of parchment, hanging from what clearly looks to be twine.

I startle when the bedroom door pushes open, and I realize that the music in the living room has stopped.

"Sorry to interrupt, but Brittany has to leave, and I thought you'd want to say goodbye." Quinn's voice is steady even as her eyes grow wide. She takes in the positioning of my phone, and clearly notices where my attention was previously directed.

I get the feeling that she didn't think about me seeing this when she allowed me to come back here.

"Oh okay. Thanks," I mumble.

Quinn mutely stands in the door as I get my client off of hold, and let her know that I'll call her back.

Hanging up, I follow Quinn back into the living room, where Brittany embraces me immediately. She's positively buzzing with excited energy.

"Marley's sister is in labor. I'm going to be an aunt!" Britt announces loudly next to my ear.

"Congratulations, B!" I do my best to return the enthusiasm of her hug, but it's difficult when my mind is on the box in the bedroom.

After a quick goodbye to Quinn, Brittany practically flies out the door. She's never been short on family, but she's never been short on love to give either. It's very fitting for her to have such a large and constantly growing group of loved ones.

I can feel Quinn watching me with apprehensive eyes before the door is even completely shut.

"I wouldn't be surprised if Britt found some mumbo jumbo way to induce labor just to get out of working today," I say with a shake of my head and a smile. I thought that saying something was a better choice than allowing an uncomfortable silence to fall over us.

"Mumbo jumbo, really?" Her eyebrow rises in that way that never fails to make me want her.

"My new client says it all the time."

"You know that's a really offensive term, right?" she questions.

"I did not..." I allow my voice to trail off honestly out of apathy. We have far more important things to talk about, and political correctness has rarely been my first priority.

"I'll link you an article on it," she states in a monotone voice.

"Well thanks for the education, Q. Now care to enlighten me on what I saw in your bedroom?" I jump to the chase.

Quinn's face darkens considerably.

"Do you think you're entitled to an explanation?" There's an unspoken threat to her tone. As if it's warning me to tread carefully here.

"Entitled, no, but I can't really unsee what I saw. So unless you want this to be just another thing that we don't talk about..." I don't balk. And yeah, maybe I am a little bitter that she can put such private parts of our past on display in the room where she presumably fucks her dates.

"I'm going to ignore that passive aggressive remark for now, but don't act like I have a fucking Santana shrine or something," she orders, and gestures to the bedroom with the tilt of her head.

Obviously, I don't see it as a shrine to me. The thing is huge, and the pieces that relate to me are a very small fraction of the whole.

As she leads the way into her room, my eyes scan her neck and back. Her tension is visible, and it causes me to wonder if mine is that obvious. When we enter, she sits down at the end of her bed with her eyes forward instead of on me. After a beat of hesitation, I join her.

"This is very personal to me, so if you could keep the bitchy comments to a minimum I'd appreciate it." The thinly veiled threat is there again in her tone, but this time it's laced with vulnerability.

"Okay."

I can hear her measured inhale. If only I was as comfortable with touching her as she has been lately with touching me. I could place my hand on her leg or back, or I could take her hand to soothe her disquiet.

She speaks before I can decide to suck it up.

"I started doing these, much smaller versions of this one, my junior year at Yale. They helped me visualize who I used to be, who I was, and who I wanted to be. For the introspective crisis I was going through at the time, it was better than any dream board," she explains.

Her gaze roams the side of my face, but I keep mine on the work that she's created.

I certainly have some questions about the portions involving me, but I can't deny how incredible it is. Honestly, even if I had her talent, I don't think I could construct something like this. The process alone would be emotionally intimidating. Additionally, I can't imagine showing this to Puck or Sadie or any of my other best friends; and then there are those who I don't even know that well who visit my bedroom. Fuck that. I'd much sooner be naked in front of someone than expose my soul like this.

"It's amazing, Q," I compliment sincerely.

Without overthinking it, I thread my fingers through hers. I watch as the nervous lines by her mouth fade in favor of ones formed by a shy smile.

"Thank you. I built this one shortly after I moved here, and I add to it whenever I feel compelled to do so. In grad school, my boxes were absent of anything that would remind me of my family. I had this habit, counter-intuitive I know to the whole purpose of creating these boxes, of omitting the parts of my life that were too difficult for me to think about," she confesses, as her fingers tighten around my knuckles.

I don't have to look at the box again to know that there are multiple pictures of her parents and Frannie.

"But there are pictures of them in there now-" I say, more to demonstrate that I'm paying attention than for any other reason.

She tilts her head in a slight nod.

"Yes, because now I'm willing to embrace that they are part of my past, part of who I am, and maybe they will be part of my future one day. But you, this is the first one you've ever been in," she discloses.

My blood begins to audibly pulsate in my ears.

"Why now?" I inquire thickly.

She clears her throat quietly, as she applies more pressure to my hand.

"I was ready. When we broke up, I couldn't bear to throw everything away, so I packed it up instead. Mercedes let me ship it all to her, and she's kept it this whole time. A couple weeks ago, I finally asked her to send it all back to me. You were a very significant piece of my past, and who I was, and who I am, and I thought that it was finally time to reflect that," she answers with such candor that I'm honestly surprised that I can hear her over the blood rushing in my ears.

She's stripped herself down in front of me, and I'm truly not sure whether it would have been easier for me to find my words if she had done so literally instead of figuratively.

I'm not sure if she wants me to echo her sentiment and say that she played a very significant part in my past or if she'll think it sounds hollow and forced. It'd be true of course, but I wouldn't want her to think that I was saying it out of obligation.

I contemplate telling her how much it means to me to be included, and how brave I think she is, but I don't want her to think that I believe that this is about me rather than her.

"You're going to pop a blood vessel if you think any harder, S," she teases gently.

I smile coyly in response, returning my attention to the box on her wall.

"I think I just forget how often you blow me out of the water. I guess I have to get used to getting Fabrayed all over again," I half-joke.

"Yeah, you better get used to it, because you're a pretty great piece of my present as well." Her thumb glides along the skin of my hand.

"You're corny as hell."

She pushes her side against mine, and I know that she's not upset. I find myself leaning into it.

"And you're an ass," she jabs.

Her hand disappears, and mine feels empty for a fleeting moment. But she weaves her arm under mine, and something brushes against my shoulder; I'm not sure if she grazed me with her cheek or her lips.

Despite how content I am in this position, my curiosity isn't completely sated. The hanging parchment, of all things, seems the most strange. Sure, the handwriting on it isn't mine. They're her words and quotes she's taken from a variety of places, but to me parchment paper like that, hanging from twine in the way that it is, will always represent our relationship.

"And the twine and parchment?" I inquire, as her warm breath ghosts along the skin of my upper arm.

She looks up at me, and not in a timid way or in a way that would demonstrate to me that she feels self-conscious at all.

Unfortunately, my work ringtone disturbs the moment, but my eyes don't waver from hers.

The ends of her mouth turn downwards, but I have no interest in working right now.

"Answer it, Santana. I know you need to," she guides.

"It can wait." _This is important_. I don't say the latter, but I hope she can infer it from how firm my tone is.

"I'll be here when you're done. It's okay," she reassures me, untangling herself from my side and arm. It sounds like a promise.

She smiles at me in this soft and encouraging way as she leaves the room. For some reason, I'm confident that she meant what she said, and with that thought, I answer the call.

* * *

**A/N: Hi readers! This chapter was shorter than my usual, I know (although I wouldn't say that it is short as far as this site goes). This was an organic place for me to leave the chapter, however, and I'm about to start my last year of law school so I wanted to give y'all something before things got really busy for me again. **

** If you have any questions, comments, concerns, and you don't want to leave a review feel free to stop by my tumblr (my user name is quasisuspect). I also occasionally do drabbles and other things on there as well. **

** I'm sure some of you are tired of hearing this, but ckeller48 is all of the good things, so I will never get tired of saying it. **

** Thank you for reading and for all of the feedback everyone! You are all amazing. **


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